


Amaranth

by Kastaka



Category: Maelstrom LARP
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 07:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 70
Words: 78,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10782156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kastaka/pseuds/Kastaka
Summary: Compilation of Amaranth fic from lrpdrabbles LJ





	1. Not Your Sister

When she closed her eyes, when she existed in pure thought between this world and the next, she could see it bright as day. She had been in nothing like her current form, of course, but in her mind's eye that was what she saw, blinking in the sunlight on the world's first morning. Around her the savannah stretched off in all directions, unspoilt by the touch of mortal hands.

Unspoilt? No - _unimproved_.

There was a dimming on the horizon, a darker green against the green, and she drew the picture from her mind's eye, saw the branches of the tree in which the creature sat. That way. Joyful in the sunlight, warmth and brightness and purpose, striding across the plains to do the will of the Gods.

\----

"Sister?"

She looks up, hopeful that the interruption will be productive.

"No, you're not my sister."

But, alas, it is another one of those complicated matters, and she exchanges only a few words before heading about her duties.

Later, she falls briefly into the pocket on her way through and surveys the scene. Angel, angel, demon. Table covered in papers. No-one she wants to see.

"Why don't you take a seat for a moment, sister?"

 _I am not your sister,_ she thinks, but she takes a seat in any case. Not for long, though. Out in the world, time is passing, and there are things to do.

\----

"I don't suppose that you would know where Detail is?"

Part of me wonders what game it is that you are playing, for I have been in the world too much and too long to believe that there are truly good men and women in it. In Flambard I would have had to rely on my title to have such ready help and such competent hands to carry that which I cannot. But I am sure that you have thought of that, too, and I hope that your prayers will see your service rewarded.

\---

"This is the one who introduced himself to you as Horus."

I recognise you, brother, the way that you wear your different forms and your different names. I do not think you like me very much, but that has never mattered, has it? Out of all of those of our brethren to whom I have been reintroduced - I respect you. When I say, under my breath, "This is why I have not spoken to my brethren for the past five thousand years," it is not you to whom I am referring. 

There is never a moment when you are idle, when you are found talking to no end, when you are lacking in focus. 

(Perhaps you, also, fear what would happen if you stopped?)


	2. Exciting Adventures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-canon meme response.

1\. Would you prefer to rescue or be rescued?

Actually, I'd rather be rescued. Rescuing people implies they've put themselves in some danger to start with, which is never a good thing.

2\. Adventure beckons. Do you need forcing, or do you leap into action?

Assuming there's obvious action to leap into, and nothing to suggest it would be particularly retarded to do so. There's always the danger of leaping to false conclusions, but to be honest people tend more on the side of falling into the danger of taking no action at all.

3\. The phone rings. An anonymous voice says you have one minute to get out of the house, before they come for you. What do you do?

Secure any items I'm carrying in a reasonably hidden location, tell anyone I'm with to start running (and ideally point them in a sensible kind of direction), ready any weaponary I happen to have lying around and watch the entrances sarcastically. After five minutes, declare it a false alarm, pick up my stuff, and go find whoever I sent running off for no good reason. Then set about finding out who was on the other end of the line for a nice chat about prank-calling angels.

4\. If you were attacked right now by ninjapiratezombiegoblins, what would you use to defend yourself?

My halberd - although I wouldn't really be defending _myself_ so much as trying to buy a little time for the others to retreat. Alternatively, if I was unarmed and alone at the time, I would ask them what the hell they thought they were doing and then proceed to discorporate. Or whatever was appropriate to the role I was playing at the time, I suppose.

5\. What form of media would best be used to commemorate your adventures (books, movies, improvised street theatre etc)?

I don't think I'm worth commemorating, but if you really insist I think it ought to be a graphic novel. Easiest way to capture the moods of the occasional interesting scenes without getting into a lot of dull description and/or exposition.

6\. What songs would be on your soundtrack?

It's actually quite hard to find a soundtrack for me, because people do have this habit of writing about current events or love affairs, neither of which really mean much to me, I'm afraid. The uncharitable might assign me a list of Editors songs, like the charming 'All Sparks', or maybe the slightly more positive 'An End Has A Start'. Or there's always the epynonymous Nightwish song, which has a surprisingly fitting chorus for something that was simply an unfortunately suspicious accident of timing.

7\. The world is in peril from evil scientists. Only a small band of mis-matched heroes can save it. Which side are you on?

I would, I imagine, be tagging along with the small band of mis-matched heroes, trying desperately to ensure they did not kill each other and/or themselves instead of actually making any progress with their mission.

8\. When picking a stylish evening outfit, how much does practicality become a consideration?

I feel uncomfortable in a manifestation that I can't run in. Fighting is a little more optional, but only when I'm quite sure about it. Obviously I often have to change the clothes of a manifestation without discorperating, in the line that I tend to work in, which means I can't always meet these criteria as well as I'd like.

9\. When picking a practical adventuring outfit, how much does style become a consideration?

Even when building a manifestation for practicality, there's no reason to spook the horses, as it were. What you look like sends out a wide variety of subtle cues, and unless you're going to be entirely alone (in which case, building for how it feels to inhabit is probably the only remaining concern) there will undoubtedly be some considerations of style to work in there.

10\. As sexual tensions simmer during the tango, fortunes are won and lost in the casino and secrets are bought or stolen in the bar, where are you and what are you doing?

At the bar, if that's where the information is. Elsewhere only for a particular purpose. If I'm not with current acquaintences, moving between groups in such a manner that I can eavesdrop without ever obviously looking like I'm not purposefully going to talk to my friends who are right over there. With a half-full glass in hand, probably a cocktail glass, of course.

11\. How much of a team do you ideally prefer to work with, or do you usually operate alone?

I prefer to operate alone. Obviously that doesn't mean without contacts or acquaintences - it is usually quite important to build a network of those as quickly as possible - but otherwise, well, I prefer not to have to play nicely with the other children, as it were. 

12\. What sort of future prospects would your love interest or sidekick have? Is it worth them enquiring about the pension fund?

Those who might believe themselves my 'love interest' or 'sidekick' are charmingly deluded, and I don't tend to keep hold of material possessions, so - if they are unintelligent enough to be gold-digging - also rather out of luck.

13\. Trapped in the barn and tied to a post. Your captor takes some of the tools down from the wall to sharpen, in preparation for your impending DOOM, leaving you alone for a few moments. What do you do now?

Finish quietly discorporating, unless there's really something very important that I need to inveigle the captor in question into telling me, or some similarly weighty reason to stick around.

14\. News of the death of your sidekick/partner/love interest reaches you by letter. How could this have happened?

Probably because I'd left them halfway around the world, hopefully because I'd finished with them, or someone is going to have to be taught a lesson about interfereing with my work.

15\. Revenge is a dish best served how?

By completely unconnected assets that I didn't much like either, quietly and efficiently with the minimum of fuss. Hard to arrange, yes, but rather satisfying when it all goes to plan, and generally not much of a loss if it doesn't.

16\. An anonymous letter invites you to a clandestine meeting. Do you go?

Of course - if I don't have anything better to do, but these things are often quite interesting and therefore fairly high on my priority list.

17\. What is the correct number of knives?

None, in general. However, sometimes a bandolier of throwing knives really does add to one's combat utility when one is an out of practice, unblessed skirmisher...

18\. What would be your perfect date?

It would... hmm. It would likely involve one of the mortal enemies of the Gods, copious quantities of alcohol or other similar intoxicant, and somewhere quiet and discreet to do the deed and hide the body.

19\. If the perfect date was interrupted by Zombie Apocalypse, how would you react?

I would be rather irritated, but would swiftly set about arranging that the other party was either undistracted or suffered some kind of tragic zombie-related accident.

20\. Did your perfect date already include a Zombie Apocalypse before question 19? In hindsight, would you have changed your answer?

Adding a Zombie Apocalypse does not really sound like the kind of thing to make a simple assassination more tidy, although I can see how it might save a more complicated operation.

21\. Have you been on many dates which would have been improved by global armageddon?

Now, now, global armageddon is a little too much. A dose of local armageddon might have prevented a few failures.

22\. How competently could you disguise yourself?

I like to think I'm quite good at it, but I rarely test it very far. More elegant to ensure that I do not need to rely on a disguise to achieve my goals.

23\. Is there space for romance in the course of your adventures?

Romance is a weapon, like everything else. It can be a double-edged one if you are not adequately prepared to wield it. I use it from time to time, but I like to think I treat it with appropriate caution.

24\. How well do you cope with sudden shifts in genre and pace?

I try my best. It's rather easier when I am expecting them.

25\. If you could pick anywhere to have exciting adventures, where would it be?

If I must have 'exciting adventures' anywhere, I suppose would rather it was within the Maelstrom. 'Exciting adventures' generally appear to be the result of things having gone wrong, and if things are going to go wrong, best they happen somewhere they can't damage any mortals.


	3. Inversion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-canon AU

Amaranth checked her headscarf and sidled up to the kamikaze-banded Kamakuran, who was staring impassively off into the distance.

"Uh, Aziraphel?"

"Yes?" As if there was nothing wrong, the cold-hearted bastard.

"Weren't you looking after Sister Oriana?" 

"I was under the impression that she was your charge."

Amaranth's brow furrowed. Then she brightened. "Well, uh, haven't you remanifested recently?"

"Not particularly."

Well, that closed off that line of enquiry. "So. Uh. You don't know where she is."

"No." Totally unmoved by the prospect, of course, as usual.

"And I don't know where she is."

"It appears not."

Amaranth scanned the crowd in the field with increasing urgency, but no relief was forthcoming.

"You do realise that quite a lot of people have Detect Soul Pact these days, right?"

"Yes."

And somewhere out there, their theurge was wandering unprotected and likely not as cautious as her usual minders. Amaranth sat down heavily on a nearby bench and buried her face in her hands.

"We are the worst Fallen ever."


	4. Fourth primal law, engel

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

She prays, quiet and industrious, in the corner of the shrine.

There is a dream. In the dream, he says, "I take it as an axiom that the gods do not disagree with each other. If you make it clear to me that you are on direct orders, then I will stand aside. I would expect you to do the same for me."

She listens, quiet and unobtrusive, as he quotes the word of the Gods.

\----

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

She is glimpsed around the door of the tent, and then flees into the night.

They have left for their beds, but she has recently remanifested, and has no need for sleep as yet, so she is tidying their tent for them. _Leave the world a more ordered place on your last day than it was on your first._ Laws do not bind her - _laws bind the body_ \- but it is not unhelpful for the Host to be an example.

She makes their apologies for them, and asks his name.

\----

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

She is sitting in the vastness of the familial tent when they arrive.

The angel idly wonders whether this information is known to the other angel, as she notes ( _use reasoning and learning to enlighten yourself and others_ ) the details missing from the account of an excitable girl. The angel idly wonders which of the gods he would have had an objection to ( _to doubt your judgement is to doubt the worth of the law you judge by and the learning you judge with_ ) and what cause he could have for such objections. 

She watches him with caution, and does not repeat the words which resonate across her heart.

\----

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

She holds her husband and there is fear in her eyes.

"Angels are not the servants of men." There is port, and there are words that weave the other half of the tapestry of this night. "Training," he explains. For the first time, she admits the current allegiances she has come to, even to herself. It does not seem hopeless, for he is a rock implacable against the angry sea the other has become, and there will not be blood, not yet. (She wonders, idly, what could have been the cause of the change of the path of his life.)

She finishes the glass of port and walks out into the cold night air, more insubstantial with every step.

\----

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

Mist into mist, mist into... familiar faces. She falls from her trance into the world as they beckon her over.

There is firelight and song. They are all too incoherant for the business of the day to be much furthered, apart from the golem, who reminds her of... who reminds her. But there is firelight, and there is song, even if she cannot score any points in those petty games which she should not play.

Then she sings and the sound is like the world breaking into pieces and falling away and the angel is striding away into the mist.

\----

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

She remembers the radiance of his face, shining with childlike awe against the stars, as he whispered his new wisdom to the world, and how the world had stopped for a second as she gazed at the moon and tried to integrate the new information into her worldview. 

As she gazed into the sky, the night sky, at stars very bright and very cold and very far away.

"Sister?"

She cannot tell him. That she is jealous? That she is afraid? That she felt pity, and how that pity faded?

That in the dream, another said, "It seems likely we will have another hundred years of this," and she had said, "We shall be lucky if it is merely a hundred years?"

\----

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

The paladin tells the angel many things by the fading light of the fire, and although the angel had said, "Please don't," she feels that this, in a way, is the paladin's penance.

The angel wonders - idly - on the nature of penance and the nature of angels, and what it is that it says about the nature of the world that she remembers discorporating the idol, and feels better.

\----

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_

_do not let personal feelings cloud your judgement_


	5. The Tallest Blade of Grass

She reads the letter again, taking comfort in the pleasantries and the politeness, the calm and reasoned wording. The first two paragraphs are fine, graceful flowing words smoothing the world under their careful folds. They are soft, allowing a glow of contentment, but now she knows what is coming after them.

The third paragraph still has not changed.

 _Keep your head beneath the parapet,_ the voice of experience cautions her. _Don't rock the boat. The tallest blade of grass is the first to be cut by the scythe. Don't draw attention to yourself._

And now it has a new refrain: _You **saw** what happened to the blessed seraph._

But she does not write any of those things. She does not write a letter saying _it is not usual for me to request the prayers of mortals_ as she had said to so many priests in so many churchyards in so many fields, she does not say _no, there is nothing_ as she had said to them when they asked if there was anything they could do for her, like the third paragraph asks of her now.

Instead, she dispenses advice. General, impersonal, quiet advice, the wisdom of angels. It sounds like something _he_ might write. She even tells him how to refer to her. She cannot help it. She can feel the ambition, the longing, the pride in her work that she had spent so long drowning and suppressing - the hope stealing back into her heart.

She signs the return letter. Dashes off a quick note about the Crusade to follow it - no need to waste an opportunity, after all. Hands it to the courier.

She does not look up at the stars, and she does not begin to cry.


	6. A Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly a dream sequence

"We need someone to infiltrate them."

The silence is a living thing, between the Awakened and the Host.

"I'll do it."

The others look at her as if she has grown some outlandish form, quite uncharacteristic of the understated angel. Some in quiet distaste, some in frank horror.

"Who will anchor me?"

A golem steps forwards. They make their way through the trees to the small clearing. She gives the golem her Name.

The golem speaks her Name, and she can feel the change. Her symbol has changed. Her Name is known. She has lost her last possession.

It feels like falling and it feels like fading and it feels... glorious.

"You're sure you want to go through with this?" asks the golem. "You can back out now, if you want. No-one will blame you. Your Name is safe with me."

"It needs to be done?"

"It needs to be done."

"Then I will do it."

The golem leads her to where the other is waiting, and the other speaks the words with such conviction that for a moment she is not sure. Is this all some kind of trick? Have they seen how unworthy she is, tested her lack of worth by her eagerness to do this, and taken her Name by trickery so they can cut her loose in the outer darkness?

It does not feel any different, when the other is finished. She refuses their offer and begins to walk, into the woodlands. Quietly fading. The fear is there - what if this is her last moment upon the world? - and the temptation to look too closely at the trees, to drink in the experience of the natural world, pulls her back a few times. But she cannot be seen with this symbol and this form - her hat is down, but she knows this is only the flimsiest disguise - and finally she succumbs to nonexistence.

As she floats, she considers. She has not been Tela for a while now. A few alterations, and she can use a mostly familiar form, one she had planned to use for her escape if it was necessary in any case.

She re-clothes herself in flesh, goes through her plan once more, and then reaches for the tether. It is still there. They have not abandoned her.

She has already ridden the tether down to the world when she realises that she barely noticed that the voices of the Gods were missing.

...

Then she wakes, choking down a scream.

Where are the orchards? Where was the sunlight through the trees? Where was the old familiar road? She rises in one fluid motion, tries to calm the ripples in her washbasin as she holds it up to the window, trying to catch the angles just right. 

Her symbol burns comfortingly back at her, amidst her tangled hair.

It was only a dream.

Quietly, so as not to wake the others, she dresses. Walks out into the night.

Maybe sleeping here is a mistake, with so much on her mind. She begins to lose coherance. She didn't appear too far from here, on the mission she had chosen. 

She'll be back in the morning.


	7. Clear Skies, Bright Stars

The night was clear. The stars shone down, their piercing cold reaching for the ground, feeling around the edges of her cloak.

She couldn't sleep. She'd only manifested this morning, after all. She hadn't worn this body out enough yet. She probably ought to go and get another, rather than walking the quiet hours of the morning out beneath the stars. She ought to go, in order to stay sharp, stay focussed, renew her strength of body and clarity of purpose.

The night was clear. The stars were bright. The dew glistened on the blades of grass, slowly turning into frost. Her breath clouded and sparkled in a pleasing fashion, old habits deeply integrated into this form she had spent so much time with.

She couldn't sleep, and she gazed into the cold sky until the watering of her eyes had reduced it to a blur of dazzling lights. And she whispered, _who made you, stars? who put you in your place? what are you, lights of the sky?_

The night was clear, and so was the answer, if those questions could come from even one such as her, even after all she had seen and done. "Even these stars, my Lady?" she chuckled, the spell of the skies broken for the moment.

And she was rather cold, and the barracks were just over there, and maybe a bed would be quite nice right now.


	8. The Silence Between The Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-canon AU.

It is only a matter of time, now.

(Difficult to speak of time, in this place. Events follow one another - thoughts have a sequence - but only, she thinks, due to long conditioning in the lands where time had meaning.)

It is only a matter of time before they come for them.

(Vanity, perhaps, to think they are worth chasing. False identification, perhaps, to think of their pursuer as capable of volition, their discovery as an event distinguished from random noise, from the dying howl of that which is comprehensible to them.)

There are many fanciful names for this place.

It is the Deep Maelstrom.

It is the silence between the stars.

It is further and deeper and stranger than she had ever thought to travel.

(Sometimes she had become lost in reverie, on the journey here. Lost in dreams, in her own creations, in patterns strung across the void from fragile memories and abandoned hopes. Always, he had pulled her onwards. _Don't do that,_ he would say, _it only attracts their attention._ )

When it comes, she wonders,

(and the thought passes between them in an instant, as nothing can be thought here without affecting one's surroundings)

when it comes, how will we recognise it?

The response is laughter, its many echoes shadowing the many forms that once her companion wore.

While you can still ask that question, it assured her, you can be sure that it has not already come.

(You could not look upon it. You could not feel it. But the knowledge, it spread through the worlds and the places beyond - as fast as a look crossed a room. The knowledge of the unknowable thing, that it was the end for all who lived and loved and danced upon the earth - and even, it became apparent, for those who did not need to.)

They hung there in silence, between one breath and the next, for uncountable ages and the blink of an eye.

(Some people made love. Some people made war. Some people returned to their families. Some people settled their differences. Some people settled their scores. And some - those who could, those who feared - some ran, in whatever direction was most comprehensible to them.)

Then the end of the world caught them, and they were no more.


	9. Not Quite In Black And White

The halberd soared through the air in his hands, scything into the creature's tender flesh. Neatly sidestepping the falling corpse, he raised the halberd in a block and caught another in the side, then pushed it away for one of his allies to cut down.

The world was not quite in black and white, because colour perception is useful in target identification, because it's handy to know which of your allies is bleeding - not that many of these that he stood with bled the conventional colours. 

Step, block - the claws bit into his black-robed form from an unexpected direction - step, swing, invert the motion for a moment to return the blade from the lifeless shoulder of the foe. Sudden open space, breaking into a long, loping stride, matching the war angels and the paladins around him.

Barreling into the enemy's second line, straight onto the spear of a foe, the short, sharp blows of an ally dispatching his body as the world fades, getting him back in the fight in the most expedient manner.

A brief sensation of fading, then catching the Word again and pulling himself back, reorienting. Plumes of smoke, shouts of war, the whistling of siege weaponary. Over there, some specks struggle on, near the horizon. He breaks into a steady jog, to rejoin them.

No words. No politics. Just him and his weapon, a field of mud and rubble, and the glorious open sky.

In the back of his mind, even Leticia was laughing.


	10. Getting Involved

"Anyone know any good dirty songs?"

The question haunts her, as she hangs there in the darkness, timeless in the silence between the stars. She's looking through her catalog. She knows this feeling.

She's getting involved again.

It is far too easy to slip into having a default, a face you show to the world which becomes you. Denying your nature, becoming like them. There are reasons, she tells herself. It will be Numanon's turn soon enough.

"My jaw is the wrong shape to sing this."

If she brings out the others... she still has one, she supposes. But the more forms they see you in, the more they can recognise you. If they can recognise her, it might be a hundred years or more before she can truly disappear.

And there are the younger races, the new ones, who some say might not have a lifespan.

It is bad enough that she has gotten involved with her brethren again. They will be sizing her up, she has no doubt. Remembering her gait, her build, her mannerisms, her voice. She can vary them, sure, but she's out of practice.

"There's something I need to tell you," she said, and she adjusted the brim of her hat.

All because she couldn't leave well enough alone. Couldn't resist taking a look at what was around the corner. Wondered what had got the old hornet's nest stirred up. Now everything she did made it worse.

There were ways, now, she knew. There were ways to defeat the industrious scribes with their little pocket-books of symbols, beyond even the simple ways she had relied upon in the past. But they needed her Name. For everything there was a price.

And the more that knew her, the harder it would be, even with that...

But what was life worth, if she was so paranoid to keep it that she could not enjoy it? Tela would have a much better time, maybe even make more friends, and was scarcely likely to alienate the list of names she'd seen so far.

Ghostly self-image flickered to life around her. A small white room, a mirror, a chair. She faded, grew, merged. Wriggled her snout approvingly. A proper coat of fur was good for the winter, too, after all.


	11. Oh, forget me not, be true

_Oh, forget me not, be true  
I can dream of none but you  
Love devours me through and through  
So leave your love, I'll leave mine too_

\----

"Did you want to join the conversation?"

_Oh. Of course. You're an angel now. You don't have to hide it any more._

She smiled gracefully and dropped the pamphlet she'd been hiding behind, listened to the pair of them more attentively. Kicking herself for not doing so earlier. She'd only heard one word in three and if the rest of their conversation was a guide, that would have been useful information, too.

\----

"Excuse me, there's something happening that I have to deal with."

_Not on your own, you don't. Some of us want to know what this is about._

Fetching people, pointing them in the right direction. It was so much easier with that damned symbol, glowing from her forehead like a beacon. Blessed Seraph this and Blessed Seraph that (oh gods, how she wanted to shake them, to look them in the eye and hiss _I have never been blessed_ ) and everyone was moving just as if she'd planned it.

\----

_I dreamt I saw a ship upon the sea  
A ship that meant to bring you back to me  
But then I saw it turn upon the tide  
And then I woke up screaming, screaming petrified_

\----

"Don't mind us, we're just going for an evening constitutional."

_Did he tell you what I said? Are you angry with me? At least this form doesn't mind discorporation so much._

When the search parties have gone in, there should be silence amongst the trees. Silence and the snow, and each trying to read the other's face, knowing that it is just a mask that they put on themselves. There is nothing in her face, although more than this form would usually permit, and in his form he wears false eyes.

\----

"And this is the part where you gentlemen all continue on back to the house and be about your business."

_I want to hear what they're saying, but getting any closer will not end well._

There seems to have been a lot more history than she was expecting in the last couple of decades. Some day she will have to sit someone down and get them to explain the whole Freiboden thing to her, in detail. Preferably with diagrams. It looks like the kind of subject which needed distance.

\----

_I dreamt I saw you fighting in a war  
With enemies against you by the score,  
I dreamt I saw you bleeding on the ground  
And in my tears I drowned, and in my tears I drowned_

\----

"Once upon a time, you gave me the benefit of the doubt."

_Ouch. I didn't have to mention that, but the look in your eyes was worth it._

He starts singing, but she just looks at him. Nice try. Wrong form. She isn't quite settled - there are parts of each of them in this compromise form she has taken - but all of them have done this before. She recalls a moment, earlier, where she went to look for him, but could not quite fade into the snow.

\----

"You cannot be other than what you are."

_Says one shapeshifter to another. You and I are both running from the truth in our souls._

The irony was bitter as the cold in the air. This is what she is made to do, she thinks. To watch them, and catch them, and fix them. She has the practice, after all. She has been watching herself for a long time, and somehow, despite everything, she has not fallen yet.

\----

_I dreamt I saw you with a blade in hand  
You came for me, I couldn't understand  
I screamed at you, in your eyes such a look  
And then my heart, again, you took from me_

\----

"I have to make a decision, soon. And I'm not sure what the right answer is."

_I should not burden mortals with my petty angelic problems. Especially not this one, who has enough of her own._

If she was Tela - if she could be Tela - then she would laugh, loudly, in this little creature's face. She would say, "Ha! I've been fookin looking for one of those all evening, love. Guess what I've found - it's you, someone who'd spread it halfway around town before I'd stopped to blink, some boy I don't want to distract with me stupid maundering, and a crystal who ain't three years old."

\----

"Oh, fuck this. I need to talk to you. Let's find somewhere."

_Oh gods, child, why do you have to ask him? Just to make it someone else's fault?_

There is a corner, and there are a few words. It doesn't work, of course. All she learns is what she already knows: they are all of them like this, every last one. She tries to tell herself that he doesn't mean it, that he's too simple to understand, that it would be different if it were Auriel, if it were Mardocai, but she knows that now she is just making excuses.

\----

_Oh, forget me not, be true  
I can dream of none but you  
Love devours me through and through  
So leave your love or leave mine too_

\----

She'd misheard the song when she first heard it. Now it felt neutered, the blade cut out, under control. She could sing it now without feeling as if she was making a promise, a great and terrible promise, a promise that she should not keep and probably would not.

Now it was just a request, and one she was entirely behind.

_Oh, forget me not, be true, leave your love or leave mine too._

Because this is what she was.

Because she didn't have to run.

Because she wasn't going to run like him.


	12. Numina

_When the time comes  
You're no longer there  
Fall down to my knees  
Begin my nightmare_

\----

The world is spinning crazily around her as it fades. The light, the snow, the noise of polite conversation, the look on the paladin's face: these snatches of vision follow her flight into the trees and into the blessed silence of nonexistance.

_It was perfect, it was perfect and you ruined it, like you ruin everything..._

She sits half-naked in the darkness and the silence, features melting off her body into unrecognisable patterns that she has never worn. There is no light to see them by, but she can feel it all the same. Her body twists and changes, refusing to settle on the one she should have chosen, the form she should have remained in.

\----

_Words spill from my drunken mouth  
I just can't keep them all in  
I keep up with the racing rats  
and do my best to win_

\----

The hat runs away in the wind, reminding her of the Thing she has become, not one thing nor the other. Tela's hat, Numenon's beak and feathers, Leticia's eyes and mouth. The latter betray her in front of the sad-eyed wemic.

_I can't tell, I can't tell what you are doing - are you saving yourself or are you betraying yourself?_

They all get it wrong, all of them, just as if she had planned it. She might be vulnerable in this form, but they are stupid... uninformed, she reminds herself, don't be uncharitable. She spreads misinformation like a blanket of snow, coating all that she encounters.

\----

_Slow down little one  
You can't keep running away  
You musn't go outside yet  
It's not your time to play_

\----

She looks out at the darkened trees and she can't do it, she can't chase him, she can't fade. She doesn't know why she thinks he'd be there anyway. It isn't a real festival, it isn't a real pocket, it's just somewhere that she made.

_How would he even get there? Why would he even go there? Surely he has his own?_

The world is stubborn and solid and real, and every snowflake catches her attention and pulls her back and grounds her. _He'll be back soon, or he won't, and there's nothing you can do about it._ The echoes clamoured around the edges of her awareness: not quite Leticia's eyes after all.

\----

_Standing at the edge of your town  
With the skyline in your eyes  
Reaching up to god  
The sun says its goodbyes_

\----

Flashback: it is maybe six, seven thousand years ago and they are standing at the edge of a village.

She is facing away from it; he is facing towards it, towards her, although which holds more of his attention is a debate she has had with herself every time she has reviewed this memory.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. You couldn't talk him out of it. You never had a chance. Even if you had known everything you knew today._

"The builder is dying," he said, gazing up at the shrine. "He gave me his Name yesterday, in case he couldn't speak when the time came. I told him he didn't need to, but you know how they get sometimes."

"And you're going to finish it?" she asked, looking into his eyes. "Won't that be terribly dull, just you and the building for months and months?"

\----

_If a plane were to fall from the sky  
How big a hole would it leave  
In the surface of the earth_

\----

"I can't think of anything more satisfying," he replied, lost in his contemplation. "Don't you like buildings?"

"I like seeing the results," she had said, sniffily, and she had looked away. "Getting your hands dirty is for mortals."

_Don't pretend you were better than you were. It was only chance and arrogance that saved your wretched hide._

"Anyway, I don't see how you can talk," he complained, finally paying her some attention. "It's not a short walk from the town to here, is it?"

"I like walking," she protested. "It lets me watch things. There's variety. And I don't have to concentrate on doing it."

\----

_Let's pretend we never met  
Let's pretend we're on our own  
We'll live different lives  
Until our cover's blown_

\----

"Hmm," he said, unconvinced. "I don't see what's so different, myself."

"Have you ever done it before?" she asked, suddenly curious. "Taken one of their souls, to finish what they were doing?"

_It was so innocent, then, that it's hard to remember. It's hard to remember through the years that came next._

"No," he replied, casually. "Have you?"

"None of them would ever trust me with it," she said, "the ungrateful bastards."

\----

_I push my hands up to the sky  
Shade my eyes from the sun  
As the dust settles around me  
Suddenly night time has begun_

\----

It is just over five thousand years ago, and they are standing on the steps of a beautifully appointed church.

"Don't you like it?" he asks. "Don't you think it's glorious?"

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why didn't you see the signs? Why couldn't you see what would happen?_

"It's glorious, dear," she says, meeting his gaze. "It's the best church I've ever been near."

"He left for the Weaver two days ago," he says, with the pain of the loss in his eyes. "Now I don't know how I did it. I can see everything that I did, but I don't know how I did it."

\----

_If a plane were to fall from the sky  
How big a hole would it leave  
In the surface of the earth, the surface of the earth_

\----

She changed horses three times and got there before the sun could set on the news, but someone had beaten her to it.

"I know," he said, climbing down the ladder with his paintbrush in his hand. "I know. But what am I supposed to do about it?"

_There wasn't a good answer. There was never a good answer. Only a flock of might-have-beens, seen flying away through the stained glass windows._

"I did it for Her," he said, the lost bewilderment starting to creep in around the edges. "I did it all for Her. Surely she understands?"

Amaranth felt the tears starting to form, and looked determinedly at the ground. She could not keep them out of her eyes, but at least she could keep them from falling.

\----

_Come on now  
You knew you were lost  
But you carried on anyway_

\----

"You could apologise," she offered. "Like, properly, with a priest. And send him back straight away. Maybe that would do it?"

"But it isn't finished," he said. The blank incomprehension in his eyes begged how could you suggest such a thing?. "It isn't finished. That isn't what he would have wanted."

_You couldn't talk him out of it. You never had a chance. Even if you had known everything you knew today._

"Then I guess this is goodbye," she said, with more petulance than he deserved.

"Aren't you going to kill me?" he called after her, as she turned and walked away. "Or are you just going to tell the others," he added, "so that you don't have to get your hands dirty?"

\----

_Come on now  
You knew you had no time  
but you let the day drift away_

\----

The pleading look in his eyes.

_Numanon does not manifest with tear ducts. Numanon does not manifest with a face. So what are you? What are you, and your stupid hat?_

She was not even in the front line.

_I am Numina. I am different. I have stopped running._

She stayed to watch him fade.

\----

_If a plane were to fall from the sky  
How big a hole would it leave_

\----

She still had one left, one that she'd practiced and not been seen in. It was more practical, anyway. The plan involved less variables. A shame that the other one had been wasted, but nothing she couldn't recover from.

_We have finished with that. We do not need it any more. We have stopped running._

Now there was another of these miniature festivals to prepare for, in amongst the military preparations, the fighting and the dying, and the endless rounds of standing quietly behind her charge in cold Fidelian churches. She could use her other faces, but they did not feel the same inside. Or rather - they did. They did feel the same, inside.

\----

_If a plane were to fall from the sky  
How big a hole would it make  
In the surface of the earth, the surface of the earth, the surface of the earth..._


	13. We are recognised by the company we keep

a salute at dawn  
angel walks through unknown lands  
to unknown welcomes

(Are you going to Scarborough Fair?)

This fortress is not blue.

This welcome is not formal - no lines here, no hovering at the door. She forgets herself for a moment, uses the wrong name. Even this does not matter.

We are recognised by the company we keep.

\----

hot soup and windows  
words break like the ocean surf  
attach names to faces

(Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme)

They do not know her.

"It's rice-flour. You make it into a paste, and you spread it over the bread before you bake it. That's how you make the loaves like this."

They do not fear her.

\----

over many lives  
memories lost to the wind  
once she could set fires

(Remember me to one who lives there)

She watches the flow of society in motion.

Maybe she is wrong. Maybe she is mistaken. Maybe she cannot provide such an overview from so little observation. But every time she makes a statement, he nods.

So many infants die before they wean.

\----

outside, ice and quiet  
in the darkness, fever dreams  
closed eyes hide branches

(For once he was a true love of mine.)

She excuses herself to sleep.

(what if? what if he was lying? what if she was faking? what if they were hiding something? what if she knew about them? what if he heard word of this?)

The logical forest extends into the night.

\----

the coal in the fire  
accomplishes everything  
the merchant loves you

(Love imposes impossible tasks)

The world falls into place.

They are having a conversation which is strangely familiar. Echoingly familiar. Hauntingly familiar. They are having a conversation that she has all the time.

She knows what she must do.

\----

do your duty first  
we were not built for these things  
tree drops empty shells

(Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme)

She gazes out of the window.

It is no substitute for walking, and her feet take her into the garden. Too many thoughts, not enough time to process, to extract the truth from the noise and find the path.

There is no use in the path that cannot be walked.

\----

empty corridor  
echoes with ghosts of the past  
winter is coming

(Though not more than any heart asks)

She walks down the stairs.

She wants to scream. She wants to hit something. She wants to bang her fists against the walls until they are bloody and write it over and over and over until she understands.

But... she understands. It doesn't matter.

Right now, she wants a biscuit.

Numina smiles.

\----

the lonely table  
silently accuses them  
hear Coyote laugh

(And I must know she's a true love of mine.)

"We could bet an armadillo."

"So, I considered putting on the robe, stealing the hat, and seeing how long before I was violently discorporated, but I couldn't be bothered."

She folds the note carefully, rolling the paper into a tube.

She watches the angel sleeping peacefully on the sofa.

She quietly moves to hear the conversation better.

She rearranges her cloak over the angel's feet.

She slips the note under the boot buckle.

\----

(And I must know she's a true love of mine.)


	14. She Wanted To Remember

And remember when I moved in you  
The holy dove was moving too  
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

\----

When the world was new and exciting, the things you could do with mortal forms were also new and exciting. Or animal forms. Or forms like nothing yet discovered in nature. There had been plenty of time, when mortals were few, to experiment.

The pocket was like any other. A blank canvas on which to express themselves. Soft white nothingness faded into intangible distance; cushioning, but not confining. This particular moment was about the forms - not about the furniture.

And such forms they were! Sinuous, graceful, living works of art, twisting together, deeply coloured with those shades that you could only find on a soap bubble for a fleeting instance. New textures, new senses, compiled from a great library of observations; or, mostly on his part, some spark of innate creativity that defied common definition.

In placeless time and timeless place, they melted into one another, competing and co-operating to move their experience to new heights until there was barely a distinction between one and the other...

...back in the moment, listening to the singers in the drawing room, it has been a long time since she had let anyone get that close.

\----

Well maybe there's a God above  
But all I've ever learned from love  
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya

\----

"Don't do that."

She goes for a walk. She tightens her grip on her staff. She digs the form's slightly impractical fingernails into the palms of its hands.

She has had a lot of sex over the last eight thousand years. Some of it was just because she felt like it. Most of it was because she wanted something. When you've got nothing to sell, you can often sell your body. When you want to catch someone off their guard, there are few better ways than to sleep with them. When you've got to infiltrate an army camp, it's easiest to be a camp follower. 

It doesn't mean anything. 

Most of her forms have a fairly full sensorium. A little inconvenience from unpleasant sensations is generally worth the extra information from useful ones. Some of them are missing the wiring down there. The hundred and forty-first wemic soldier is much like the hundred and fortieth - she saw no reason to put herself through that again.

This is not one of the incomplete forms. It's not that the Lady Leticia D'Urbey has that much sex anyway, and that which she might engage in is likely to be sufficiently politically important that Amaranth could at least do with the feedback to fake it really well.

Occasionally, it appears, it is inconvenient. 

\----

And it's not a cry that you hear at night  
It's not somebody who's seen in the light  
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

\----

"Did anyone else think that sex with Lilith is going to be his forfeit?"

She considers joining the game. She does not wish to articulate the reasons to herself. She stays with safe reasons - it would make her look approachable, it might give her an excuse to get to know the kitchen staff. 

It would unacceptably compromise her dignity. Looking around the room, she sees a person or two on whom dignity might still be useful. She remains in her seat, just beyond the circle. It is totally not because she can't abide the prospect of losing.

(She was happy to lose the Merisusi Game, but that was different. She is bad at those things, and she knows it, and it has little effect on her life. She should be good at these things, but isn't, and it annoys her.)

She considers the other angel, when she thinks she isn't looking. It belongs to the Weaver, just like him. It appears to be generally free with its affections. It had tried to hug her. It would probably say yes if she was to ask.

Watching her asleep on the sofa, one ear on the conversation left plenty of room for... other thoughts. She caught herself studying the form, the symbol, like she would study a scene of nature she wanted to remember.

"Should we fetch some blankets, or do you think you can carry her to bed?"

"Am I going to need free hands for this?"

"She'll be..." began the answer.

One last look, up and down.

"Yes," she finished.


	15. Echo Location

As soon as she sees what the Imperator is wearing, she knows. The singing, the halfway smiles, the way she holds herself, everything supports the angel's conclusion.

There are quite enough of the arrogant amongst the Host.

Perhaps she is mistaken. Perhaps the General would surprise her. But she can hear the conversation that they do not have, and every iteration is basically the same. She could impose herself, but how would that do either of them any favours?

There is nothing to be said that another cannot say better.

So she talks to others late into the night, canvasses their opinions, secures their co-operation (or maybe she doesn't, but the task is hopeless, and nothing she should ask). She watches, but doesn't get too close.

Maybe it is just another echo of the long and lonely years.

There is never a moment, never a place or a time, and she is sure it is quite deliberate. Not just for her, for all of them. And in any case, she has seen what happens when people get too close.

\----

"I thought it could be a dead dryad, you know, it was in the right kind of place for it."

Echo location. Some sea creatures do it. Bats. When your world is dark and moving at high speed, it's a sensible solution. Listen to the noise that you put out, and listen twice as hard to the reflections.

"I'm always right. No, seriously, give me an example."

Jason James is correct. She can't give him an example. Everything he says is right.

That doesn't mean it will help in any way.

Truth's a bitch like that.

\----

For Miyoko:

i have been playing  
this game a lot longer than  
you, little human


	16. Hardly Her Greatest Success

She sits alone in the tent and attempts to digest the conversation they have just had.

She's attempting to fade, but she knows it will take her some time. She's been having trouble discorporating ever since certain distasteful theories occurred to her, but she can't fight like this, and soon there will be fighting.

She needs some time away from this form, too. Possibly quite some time. The plans she had made for the upcoming festival seem juvenile now, but maybe they will help her hang together a little better. Maybe they will help her find the balance between Leticia and Numina again.

Numenon does not have this problem, but she's not quite ready to take him to a festival just yet.

As the tears make their way down her cheeks she keeps note in the back of her head that she needs to remember this feeling, because those who do not remember are doomed to repeat their mistakes. She isn't sure that conversation was a mistake, but it was hardly her greatest success.

She just hopes that turning up looking different doesn't cause too much consternation among the people she's built up as allies - time and time again, she knows, she has underestimated how deeply unobservant the mortals could be, even those who should really know better.

It is thus lost in her memories that she finally fades from the world, her hat and staff following shortly behind the remainder.


	17. A Field Of Grass

He stares blankly into the fire, for he does not have a face which is capable of expression.

He does not share the concerns of the other forms about discorporation. Every evening, he fades, to reappear afresh with the dawn. Sometimes, he lets them cut him down. Good practice, he says. Good practice to take down something which moves and speaks and defends itself. Not as good as if it were a thing which flinched from pain and screamed, but the foes they face here are unlikely to be of that kind in any case.

He stares blankly into the fire, ever-changing in the shadows that it casts upon the world.

Fire in darkness. One of those things that was so hard to get right. The pockets of the Maelstrom were suffused with indistinct light, and conjuring a single source for the light was challenging, more so something as shifting and mercurial as a flame. Yet fire was so simple, so self-similar compared to something like a tree or a field of grass or a flock of birds. Each flame was almost the same as the next. Each feather was unique and different.

He stares blankly into the fire, and reflects on the irony - that it is only in war that Amaranth finds peace.


	18. What Amaranth Did Next

Forest. Jungle. Life.

Strange plant scents. Huge serrated leaves. A filigree of vines.

She puts one foot in front of the other. She pauses from time to time. Studies a stem, a branch, a flower in minute detail. 

Grounding herself. Being in the world. Updating her stores.

Fragments. Pictures. Trappings.

She likes walking. Walking calms her. Footsteps banish emptiness.

Looking over her shoulder anxiously. _He isn't coming for you. He hasn't even noticed you are gone, he has better things to do, this is not about you._

_Nothing is about you. You are not important. Angels barely exist._

Clouds. Feathers. Tears.


	19. Two Sides of the Coin

They are much the same, but so different.

Same orange in their fur. Same status in their community. Same unshakeable sense of responsibility.

Same ghosts of the past calling to them which they cannot be sure whether to heed or dispel.

It is how they express themselves which is so different. Alfas rarely raises his voice, and when he does it is to be calmly heard across the din. Marcus rants freely across the camp, not caring who hears his heartfelt opinions. The imam and the soldier.

They should not be seperate. Amun-sa tradition may serve it well, but no god commends tradition.

They could raise cathedrals. They could rebuild the colony. Their unshakeable love for their community could be glorious.

The strong expropriate what they cannot conquer.

The weak destroy what they could control.

She hopes it will not be the latter.


	20. The Little One

"Can we acquire a less politically unfortunate source for the third accusation? Will make enquiries."

Pen slices paper like a sword into skin. Numenon was not built for writing things down. Broken four quills already today and the sun isn't yet down. Always something else on the noticeboard, handed to him on the move, slipped innocuously onto the desk he had to commandeer.

It is obvious where to send further enquiries, but who to address them to?

 _The little one._ Why does he think of it like that? Others of its kind are more compact. Others of its faction are just as young. Something in the face, perhaps. The slight rounding of jagged edges that the overwhelming pattern gives it. 

Something in the eyes, the thoughts, the curiosity, the incessant writing of things.

"Fear not, dear sister, I will not act rashly."

And indeed surprisingly little comes of it.

There is no pressing reason to seek the alchemist out at the festival, and a myriad pressing reasons to do this and that instead, even if sometimes this is just 'stand here' and that is just 'listen'. It travels in a pack, like a sensible individual. It does not seek her out.

In the forest, she wonders. _Would Potch miss me? Would it come looking?_

But why would she think such things? It is barely formed. It has its own concerns. It has its own guardian angel.

It would come looking for him, she has no doubt, but not for her.


	21. Spiders Between The Lines

It sort of counted, didn't it?

No, of course it didn't. But she was going to do it anyway.

"You wanted to speak to me?"

Of course, what she meant was, I wanted to speak to you. Jacob.

"I wanted to say - thank you."

As if she'd thought this evening couldn't get any worse. _Thank you for cocking everything up, you mean?_

"I was going to do some planning later."

Well, hadn't that worked out well. She'd spoken a little longer, but she hadn't said what she wanted to say. _What are you playing for? What do you really care about? Why did you apologise to me?_

"Yes, I think that's everything."

Solid. Useful. Not glowing - not like her, not like it, not like them - but solid. She could compare him to Detail, but the comparison would make her laugh. One priest was a tame lion, so far as she could tell. The ex-paladin? Not so much. (And anyway, Detail was glowing, today.)

Miracles I can do. The impossible takes longer.

Most mortals' secrets were not worth knowing. This one? She just hoped she could find out... before it bit her in something she cared about.


	22. don't run

...him.

_don't panic don't move don't run for Weaver's sake **don't run**_

there in the entrance to the tent

there in the entrance to the tent and there was no way out that wasn't past him

of course there was

of course there was a way out

stay still stay silent

_freeze in the gaze of the carthorse like a rabbit_

don't look at it

eyes closed fading from the world _he can't hurt you here he won't hurt you here he won't_

_why would he hurt you  
 **paranoid bitch**  
why would he hurt you_

through shaded eyes movement

half heard half seen

coming closer

_don't panic don't move don't run for Weaver's sake **don't run**_

I can't let her see me like this

don't look at it

don't look at it

don't look

RETURNING


	23. King of Diamonds

"That certain ways of doing things were no longer appropriate."

Eyes so wide. Words so earnest. Singing in the evening with the children.

Did you lose anyone, I wonder. Did any of yours fall away? Did you hang onto them, as long as you could? It would be so easy, with an arrangement like yours. It would be so easy to drag them back from the depths.

You are well-spoken, and you are sensible, and I feel no concern when I tell people that you are one of the responsible ones, one they should come to if they have a problem. I do not expect you to step up - that is not your style. I expect you to be reasonable, to be calm, to settle the flames that the mortals so easily stir up among each other at these festivals.

Do you miss them, I wonder. Do you worry where they've gone? Do you hope they will return, that you will hunt in a pack again? I do not understand those who seek out the company of their brethren, but I do not need to understand you to use you.

Eyes so wide. Yet slightly guarded. Maybe you do understand after all.


	24. Points of Reference / Attention to Detail

"I imagine what they meant is, did you need any help killing people?"

He... doesn't glow. A little, perhaps.

He doesn't glow, but he illuminates everyone around him. A zephyr of relevance, sweeping unconcerned around the campsite, bringing out the best and the most interesting in everything he touches. He _builds_. It shouldn't be relevant, but it always is, isn't it?

There are few points of reference in the New World as of yet, and the thought of losing this one is unbearable. It is so frustrating that there is nothing she can do to help, nothing to be done but to watch and wait. _This is just a mortal, and he has no lineage._ But everything moves faster in the New World. If she can keep this mayfly buzzing even a little longer, maybe it will be enough.

\----

"I take it that you've already...?"

It's practically the definition of a successful mission.

First to the target. Observe bizarre mortal reaction. Obtain concise summary of issue. Pass on to someone with the correct contacts to pursue further courses of action. Case closed, all done, out of her hands.

She just wishes she'd had a moment to talk to him. But that appears to be someone else's job right now.


	25. The Stars My Only Witness

_on a grey morning to the south of here, two young men in makeshift uniforms peer into the misty light_

It is three or four in the morning.

Snow reflects the moonlight. One could fool oneself into thinking it was as bright as day. One could fool oneself into thinking that the Imam knew what he was doing. One could fool oneself into thinking the heathen angel was not a threat.

Neither of us, I think, are fools.

\----

_and figures dart behind the trees as the snap of rifle rounds echos out across the fields_

You watch our wild chase across the forest.

I am watching the heathen angel, but you are just watching. Later, I will find out the other things you did that night. Perhaps it is only the cold stars who know the whole story. Either I do not see you as a threat, or I acknowledge there is nothing to be done if you are.

Soon you have disappeared into the night.

\----

_well they hardly know their secret mother tongue_

This conversation is not going to plan.

There is a smile he has when he believes he has outsmarted the angels, and Veritas is in no state to argue with it. I consider speaking, but what do I have? A handful of prejudices and suppositions, and the stars as my only witness.

No-one thinks this is a good idea but him.

\----

_but they recognise the duty to defend the flag hanging limp and bloody above the village church_

Quietly, I point out the new arrivals.

A pair of hands, holding a staff. A pair of eyes, scanning the darkness. A pair of ears, inadequate to the task of listening to the politics transpiring three meters and an unfathomable gulf of scale and responsibility away.

Sometimes, an angel can only guard the door.

\----

_while a thousand miles away, in a warehouse complex down by the river, young money men play paintball games_

Then there are other duties to attend to.

The angel follows the story in snippets. Hears the complaints that they can't remember her new name, sees the Glorious Hammer sash. There is no reason to attend to the matter, but she does anyway. No sign of the heathen angel, but maybe he is just disguised beyond her ability to spot.

For a few moments, it passes from her mind.

\----

_...here comes the war..._

He had come dressed for another battle, but this one would do.

There is always waiting, before every battle, not least one such as this - in the darkness and with strange allies. Anxious questions about the time; combatants clutching their flame and taking comfort in their blessings.

The resolution was almost anticlimactic in its well-oiled progress.

\----

_put out the lights on the age of reason_

Dracoscion faces dracoscion within the ring of lights.

When he looks back on it, he wonders why his thoughts were not more conflicted. The conflict was not all for nothing, was not even about her at heart. If she had ended that fight dead, it could have solved more problems than it caused.

So why did he feel such relief when she emerged the victor?

\----

_blow out the candle and tell us another of those great stories_

"Who declared this legal?"

Now this was more like it. This was the moment she had been waiting for, that he had been waiting for. Silver symbol burning upon his forehead, he stepped forwards into the argument, taking the place he had planned all this last season.

"I did. This is the law of the Smith."

\----

_the ones about serial killers_

Lying to people, and then killing them.

It sounded so much like Numenon's purpose that he could not help but smile wryly at the statement. Of course it wasn't over, of course the mortal was hiding something, all of them were, all the time; often even from themselves.

And all the souls were missing, as usual.

\----

_let dreams flow into savage times...do you hear the sirens scream across the city, we've had three hot nights in succession...the riot season is here again_

"Don't run into their camp!"

He almost checked his pace before remembering who and where he was, remembering that he was on open ground and on both sides, and charged straight into the battle ahead which was almost over in any case.

Red scales. Red sashes. Red blood in fur.

_dear brother lead us back into the valley of shadow of death_

"Eidolon!"

He scrambled to heed the call, but Mardocai had got there first. Someone was always there first. Checked a couple of bodies, but they had surgeons or they had been emptied or they were being claimed.

Nothing left for a carrion bird.

\----

_did you think we were born in peaceful times?_

"...more urgently, as I write, the Imam may be missing..."

The angel closes her eyes in the slightest expression of despair that she can muster. _They've taken him, and I could have done something about it, and I didn't, because I was too busy failing._ She knew what Veritas would say, but it didn't help.

Just because you don't have a specific imperative, that doesn't make you not responsible.

_now you've got both. what do you want next?_


	26. Unmitigated Success

On the side of a volcano, they meet again.

Movement. Instinct. Everything she does is wrong. Childish. Intemperate.

_You're wrong. They're wrong. Everyone is wrong. Can't they feel it? Can't they see?_

_If everyone is wrong - and everything you do is wrong - maybe it is that you are wrong?_

_I am not listening to your lies, you soul-thief, you mongrel, you abortion of a form_

Leaves. Trees. Confused sailors returning around the edge of the world.

Out in the ruined city, the war rumbles on.

\----  


"The idol keeps talking to him."

Acquire target. One 'native eidolon', golden complexion, a reasonably standard form - hints of wemic, perhaps?

"You see that one, over there?"

The paladin nods. Brisk and efficient, just as she likes them. Shouldn't matter how good she is with that sword, no-one is likely to cause a fuss here and now.

"When I hit it, start hitting it too."

In from behind, target down before he's turned around, has the decency to not make too much fuss during the execution. She marks this one in her memory - competent paladin.

"Dealt with," she reports, smiling.

\----

"If I did not know you so well, sister," he said, "I might accuse you of taking the piss."

"Are they... sensitive?" She reacts, obligingly. "Well, that was a tactical mistake, wasn't it? Doesn't it hurt when you catch them on tent doors all the time?"

And a million variations on, "I like your wings," "Can you turn around so I can see them?" "Oooh, nice colours there."

_Wearing a flag on my back. Worst form for hiding ever. What did I come out like this for? Watch him... watch him... watch him so he can't see you... **don't run...**_


	27. Stages of Grief

**Denial**

\---

_Everybody wants to live in a lie  
But why should we delude ourselves?  
It's not as if we can't see something's wrong  
Where's the duty to what's right?  
Intentions end with empty words  
and chaos replaces order_

\---

"I'm sure you're needed elsewhere, and I have an attack to delay."

Numenon stalks onto the field, scanning the camps for a face he can rely on. Strides across the Flembic encampment in the direction of the Fidelians. They are sat around, give him excuses about how the wall has changed their plans.

Good. No work here. Freiboden next.

Locates Hanfling. Acquires a status report. Everyone frustrated, meeting at eight. The catapault stands in the centre of the camp, pride of place, part of the defensive line. In the distance you can see the wall.

Walk. Check camp layout. Inspect wall.

Watches Seed and Veritas as they enter. Cautious but not paranoid, then. Watches for useful meetings. Jacob. Everything is running late. So long as it is everything, the plates are all still in the air.

"He's manifested with... bloodied, deformed chicken wings?"

Catching up. Non-committal. A little of Leticia, of Numina, engages with the conversation. Half-remembered lessons of body language and courtesy, imported where they serve. Brief discussion, commiserations.

Situation report. Exchange information.

Time for the meeting, watching the notables seated. A pleasing unanimity of purpose, despite the obvious practical hurdles. It rattles its chains slightly, as if it thinks he hasn't noticed. Leticia is not looking. Numenon simply narrows his eyes.

Apologies. Promises. Opportunities.

He gains a precious gift - the stamp on the hand, studied carefully for remanifestation, the name on the list, however inaccurate. It would have been irritating to have to manifest a new polearm.

Lining up. Moving out. Show of force.

Strides alongside lines, dispensing reassurances. Ducks out to provide information to interested bystanders. Heads towards the wall in stages, each plausible, each necessary. None quite in earshot.

The stones whistle down. Scattering.

Moves with purpose, checking casualties, carrying warnings. Watches the mis-aimed shots with satisfaction. Stone against scales, stone against chitin. Observes the injured taken away, ranges estimated.

"We move at dawn." "What time is dawn?" "Around 10am." "Ahhh, Fidelian dawn."

Discussions and preparations continue, but he has taken a hit from a stray stone, and gradually he loses coherence, bleeds unnoticed, and collapses between one camp and the other, dissipated before he hits the ground.

A name he recognises, although he's never seen her.

The world returns around him. So this is the place where the tavern will be opened, he surmises. A sudden realisation solidifies his intention. Enquires at her camp - nothing. So he finds the people who know everything, and they set him on course.

So many purposes. She is bubbling over with them.

He watches the conversation, contributing a handful of encouraging noises, scanning the horizon lines. No sign of the other. Presumably he was let down by the lack of information in the expected camp. Still, vigilance is conducted appropriately.

Greetings. Meetings. The Merchant smiles upon the assembled.

Sitting in the darkening dusk, he feels Numina settle a little behind his eyes, but keeps her back a touch. Advice, not control. He does not think the other can reach her here, but he does not want to take any chances.

Business. Games of skill. The call to action.

He makes his apologies and heads out into the night. Pauses before the stockade gate. If he leaves, he will not make it back in tonight. A conversation beckons from just behind. Two men speak philosophy into the night, see his symbol and ask his opinion.

Angels and blind gods; Coyote; Karra's Kiss.

She - for Numina is behind his eyes now - she sips the drink and listens to the assembled. Eager for more information, more clarification, more possibilities - more, more, more! She does not know yet that he will be captured in the morning.

Out into the cold night. The undead stalk in darkness.

\---

**Anger**

\---

_Those who shout loudest impose their will  
Upholding laws that serve a few  
Declaring peace while the sirens sing  
In the name of progress,  
In the name of madness  
Drum beats faster  
Crowd shouts louder  
and chaos replaces order_

\---

He is watching the ritual site when he is finally overcome by his wounds.

_it is my turn now, brother_

She preens her wings in the dream place, admiring the little touches he did not remember leaving, but she did, oh, she did. The likenesses of all of them, even patient Jennah, curled around Numenon's feet.

She inspects the cage above the table, but she cannot open it.

She fades from the dream and she rides the Will down into the world, noting as she does that it is vague in its triumph, taking the oldest and the most timeworn path down into the world and laughing as she goes.

She is in no hurry, and she entertains the children for a while.

She takes the offered drink cheerfully, without a moment's thought. She tells the facet how to speak to its god, even though it is not one of hers. She smiles prettily at the myrmidon who told his god it was wrong and still yet lives.

_now time to find out what has happened_

She wanders the world for a little, but there is so little to admire here, and there is counting of money and things she feels no connection to. She feels the pull, the drag, the discomfort of Leticia in the world on a generic mission.

So she fades once again into the dream.

She moves amongst the threads of the divine voice, listening carefully to each, circling the plaited threads that she knows her mortal friends will wish to know about in great detail, at least these three for sure.

She takes one and circles down into the world.

There is scarcely room to manifest; the shrine is filled with some ceremony, and by the colours on the altar it looks like someone has in fact got here before her this time. No matter; she has a different perspective to impart.

She finds him right outside, gives him the news.

"I had already heard, but... not quite all of it, and it is the rest that makes the difference. Thank you."

She meets people and talks to people and then people keep asking her, they keep asking her where is Auriel? and where is Samahazai? and where is Veritas?, and she does not say to them, she does not say to them, "I am here, what do you want?"

But she does not feel any great obligation to go running for them.

Then there is another mission, laws and services and running for participants, a swirl of beautiful serendipity coalescing in a heartfelt whisper - "until Eschaton comes."

_but you are waiting for a different eschaton, not the one for which I am made, with my sharp teeth and my butterfly smile_

She finds him, and he has finally finished with the routine part of his business, and even better there she - it? - she is with them. If this may be the last evening the butterfly will have at such a festival, she will make it a good one.

"I just know that Auriel is going to manifest here shortly and he will look at me."

"Would he not approve of what you are doing?"

"What amuses me is the way they all manifest here and leave without even looking around."

The armoured girl is heavy in her arms, as the butterfly is loud and calm and awful and alive, and they give her one of the vambraces and forget the port in the bar and confuse Marcus by addressing his wife as 'Governor' and drink the last of the 'red' and proceed to the Chamber, cushions and war paint and skin not made for touching...

...and she sings and the world collapses and the butterfly is flying, lifting off, out of the door and into the storm.

\---

**Bargaining**

\---

_I want justice for a voice that can't be heard  
Vindication for every suffering and hurt  
Let retribution hold dominion over earth_

\---

Apharanta waits in the rain.

She has gone maybe ten paces from the front of the Chamber.

 _If they love me,_ she thinks. _If they value me, if they value me at all, they will come. They will come out and ask what is wrong._

She waits. One minute. Two. She is counting. She is counting as the rain falls and the defenders gather at the gate. The alchemical concoction surges through her form.

 _I need to kill something,_ she thinks. _I need to hit something. I need to... I need..._ as lightning splits the sky above.

The undead stalk in the darkness as she leaves the stockade.

Apharanta goes out to hunt.

"If you go back in, tell the Scholars I'm still alive."

People organising their defence.

Then Aziraphel, and the creature with him.

She falls in beside them, adds a tone of politeness to the demands to make way.

She stands at the door of the Asilio, a barrier between them and the world; or between them and Fanor, anyway.

 _Wendigo._ That is what they would call her. That is one ending to the tale.

They move on, hope for another ending.

She turns and they have gone.

"Don't shoot, don't attack, make a hole, we're escorting this one!"

The darkness is split with lightning and cries.

Apharanta is hunting. She lopes into the camp, Gebrinius at her side, and collides with the undead.

Swapping curt advice and directions with the mercenaries and half-seen figures already engaged, they beat them into the ground.

The lightning is so bright that you can see colours when it flashes, the rain running down rainbows.

The bodies fade from the world as they die.

"I can go back and attempt to draw them off, but I cannot guarantee success in this attempt."

_you know I cannot deny you anything_

It works and she leaves and does not look back.

"I am trying to help, but I wouldn't trust me with that."

Unlikely allies in the darkness.

They help contain the creature as it struggles to the barricade.

Finally, he is there, she is charging the defenders, the swords bite home before they can be countermanded.

He is there to talk her down, to keep her together as she fades.

Apharanta keeps the crowd at bay.

"I was murdered. The people who killed me were..."

Crisp orders. Allied hands.

Confusion in the darkness. _I am no longer afraid of you._

In the shrine. Think fast. "I need to speak with him for a moment. We're not going anywhere."

There is always an exit. _I am immortal, I can leave any time._

Biting pain. Severed wings.

\---

**Depression**

\---

_Because judgement day's not coming  
Because judgement day's not coming  
Because judgement day's not coming  
Because judgement day's not coming_

\---

in the dream

she looked at the picture

she fought with the drapes

she did not laugh in her face

she looked at the picture and knew it was wrong

that one of them was gone

that she wasn't coming back

that there were irreconcilable differences

that it was one or the other and it was not her

she threw the pieces

on the floor of the dream

scattered across the pocket

the fragments of what she had been

_I am **NUMINA,** I am **APHARANTA**_

_I am not **running** any **more**_

and she would not face him

and she would not do him that honour

and... _(discontinuity)_

"I believe I had a chess game on the side of a volcano with this one."

She is not paying much attention to her surroundings. She likes it in here. There is warmth and light and the feeling that everything, somehow, everything will somehow be _all right._

"On a scale of 0 to, about twenty, how much trouble am I in?"

She hasn't even set all her bridges on fire. The question has four answers. One of them might not be relevant any more, but she's not Apharanta and she doesn't have to think that.

"She took my hands and she said, again - 'Forgive me?'"

She is a small wemic in the darkness and she doesn't care, she doesn't care, she doesn't need to care, and hope is still alive, and maybe for a few moments she can just be.

"I hear this rumour that you might have a library."

The sunlight through the door of the tent - is it not beautiful?

The words written upon a page - are they not beautiful?

Sitting in a shaded tent, surrounded by the faithful, reading their collection of carefully tended documents - is this not happiness?

One of the pictures brings a peal of laughter bubbling up from Apharanta beneath the surface, but she pushes it back down.

If they want her, they will have to come and get her.

"You have done so many things for us, Amaranth. Now tell me. What can I do for you?"

"Last night I... I made some bad decisions. Nothing permenant. But I... I don't think I can stay here any more."

"I can justify it, of course. I'm good at justifying things. I have a lot of practice."

_but the truth was that I was scared and I was cold and I was alone and I did it because I loved her and I didn't love them so much_

Simple food, crisp and warm, with its subtleties of taste and texture - is this not happiness?

"This form doesn't really do anger, so I had forgotten. But Apharanta - Apharanta was angry."

She looks at the time. _Now I'm angry._

"What does Jason James look like?"

"He looks like... that! Thank you," she says, as she spots him at the gate.

It is not until she is walking away that she realises the significance of the parting gesture, and she laughs as she walks and she walks until she fades.

\---

**Acceptance**

\---

_Because judgement day's not coming soon enough_

\---

She nods politely at the crewman as she boards the ship.

In her cabin, she notices the mirror, and she needs to change her blouse in any case.

She takes off the hat, carefully. Loosens the bodice, lifts it over her head. One sleeve, the other, the blouse lying on the bed.

In the mirror, neatly stowed in her back, out of sight and out of mind until revealed:

A feral glint in her eyes, she shakes out rainbow wings.


	28. Builders

_In the end all you can hope for  
Is the love you felt to equal the pain you've gone through_

Jason James is nothing like the one she has lost.

They are builders, yes.

They have the kind of way with words that flows like a river in springtime, the ability to charm the last few bushels off a Mokosh, and the irrepressible spirit that refuses to see obstacles and hazards and impossibilities.

They would both create cities out of nothing if they could.

Jason James is mortal, and _his_ form was never like that, and Jason James is taken.

After a priest, an alchemist is maybe the most dangerous adversary that an angel could make.

So she laughs and she watches him and she watches her more carefully, as she takes his arm and sits by him and lets them touch her wings, and she only thinks briefly about how if they _were_ to, she would have to be on top.

The wings, you see. Not really designed for that kind of thing. She'd have to improve on that.

And he is so terribly useful. Interesting people gather like moths to his money, his talent.

She cannot answer the letter at first, for she is Numenon.

Numenon is a creature of duty, maybe more than any of them. He will not leave Archangel on a whim. Leticia knows politics, and she knows this kind of invitation, and she does not know how his wife would react to it.

The invitation expires.

Jason James is nothing like the one she has lost.

_The system's put in place, put there to protect us  
For you I'd throw a lifeline every time_

She cannot see Constantin and cannot quite remember what he looks like.

They are all busy with their errands. They have no time for an angel, for her mission, and then she sees him again.

 _well, he practically owns the whole area, he will know what is going on,_ but she knows she is twisting the message already, and in this moment - she doesn't care.

All flashing wings and butterfly smile, she joins him in the retreating sunlight. Grapes and cherries and conversation - and she does not mention the task she bears except in passing, does not pursue it. She looks at their tickets to the Carnival with envy, but no offers are made.

Raguel meets the party on the way to the tavern. _why do you keep turning up?_ The place is practically deserted, and unlike some previous festivals does not seem to have any stray pockets of unreality; the butterfly checks all the hidden corners as they decide on seats. Then out comes the contrabando - and with it, the alchemy.

There is a brief, and rather fierce, argument in her mind.

"I am not taking anything that you won't describe the symptoms of first," she warns him, eyeing the little bottles suspiciously. _come on, give me an excuse._ He proposes some kind of game, but as he says, the antidote to the second potion doesn't work on her. She laughs in his face. "Yes, I spoil all your fun."

"If you give me that, I can tell you what will happen. I will immediately kill myself and spend the next however long until it wears off shaking and feeling abjectly sorry for myself in the Maelstrom pocket. Rocking backwards and forwards. That does not sound like a fun evening."

She takes the other one, and the world springs suddenly into sharp focus. Everything has an alarming vibrancy which makes her want to run, and sing - but she doesn't.

Instead, she holds the ex-dracoscion as Bess combs and plaits its black hair, daring them with loose words to ask.

Her bait fails; they stagger happily from the tavern without the answer.

_Now retreat, retreat  
And meet me by the quayside_

The creature Eli attempts to fall in step with them, but he shoos her away, and so she does too.

Finally they are there - the Chamber of Delights, where she had expected to end up this evening, their unsuccessful search for additional alchemy notwithstanding.

"Do you want a room?" Tallia asks. She assumes it's Tallia. It seems to fit the image she saw earlier, floating in the mind's eye of the gods, that she had searched for and found with the mission already being completed as she watched.

They almost get a room, but instead they take the pile of cushions and the sofa in the corner, and the bench she can perch on just beside. _If you didn't have wings, you could be sitting next to him,_ Leticia said. _If I didn't have wings, I wouldn't be here right now,_ Apharanta reminded her.

There is port and there is war-paint and she apologises for the lack of correct anatomy in this manifestation - the hands are designed to _work_ , not to have the full range of sensation for enjoying a nice hand massage, she explains.

And there is music. _walk away me boys, walk away me boys, and by morning we'll be free..._

_from the east out to the western shore  
where many men and many more will fall_

_but no angel flies with me tonight  
though freedom reigns on all  
and curse the names for which we slaved our days  
so every man could choose Kingdom Come_

_But sure as night turns day  
it's the passion play  
oh my god  
what have they done  
with madman's rage  
well they dug our graves  
but the dead rise again you fools_

_walk away me boy  
walk away me boys  
and by morning we'll be free  
wipe that golden tear  
from your mother dear  
and raise what's left  
of the flag for me_

And a little later... songs about 'true love', they swiftly learn, do not go down very well.


	29. Somewhere Safer, Somewhere With A Bit Of Light

_Pick up your feet, fall in, move out  
We're going to a party way down south  
Me and the corporal out on a spree  
Damned from here to eternity_

"Don't just stand there, keep hitting them!"

"But this one's down. Do they... get back up?"

"Yes, you idiot!"

She takes the convincingly solid representation of a quarterstaff and applies it liberally to the face and body of the creature, beating it into unrecognisable mush as the others use their greater force and finesse on keeping down the writhing extremities.

It fades into the dirt as her staff descends towards its feet; a disappointing splat rather than the satisfying crunch she had anticipated. She wonders vaguely if they feel anything.

_Of course they don't feel anything, they can't feel anything, they don't have souls._

She tries to forget the cattle and the sheep and the noises they make when you kill them.

Then it is on to the next one and someone has the bright idea that she should attempt to speak to what is not there. Ever the diplomat, for the second time she shows willing; plunges her hand towards the creature's chest and reaches for the soul she knows to be absent.

It rears up off the ground and almost has her arm off before the crowd beats it back into the mud and finishes it off properly this time. The wound aches slightly as she finishes it off.

"These aren't undead over here!" the call goes up. "Can anyone talk to them?"

She wades over to the small cache of bodies on the floor. The first doesn't look like the other undead, and has managed to die without fading which is always a good clue, but it is just as empty as the walking husks which she has been pursuing through the storm.

The second, unfortunately, is still inhabited. There is a thrill of hope in the back of her mind, but it is swiftly silenced by recognition. This one is unlikely to be coming quietly.

"Right, we're taking this one somewhere safer, somewhere with a bit of light."

_I hate this flat land, there's no cover  
For sons and fathers and brothers and lovers  
I can take the killing, I can take the slaughter  
But I don`t talk to sun reporters_

"I just need to talk to him for a moment, please wait outside. We're not going anywhere."

Lying used to be like breathing - what has changed, why has she let herself get cornered? She turns to the human, the mortal, it's always worth blaming someone else. Has she misjudged him? No, she thinks, events have just been moving too fast.

"This problem," she gestures at the golem, "needs to disappear. I don't do this sort of thing - I don't know what to do - I don't know where to put it. But I think you do, I think you've done this before. Do you understand me?"

He doesn't, and he doesn't, and then he does and he is moving out the back of the tent under the tapestry and surprisingly silent in the night for a priest dragging a stone statue after him. 

She thinks for a moment, and braces herself, and cracks herself upside the head with that quarterstaff. That should set a time limit on trouble, at least, and it's not as if her head could be ringing more than it was with the panic of the whole affair.

"Where have they gone? Have they damaged the tent?"

She looks up, appropriately dazed. "I'm sorry, I'm not very coherent at the moment, I have this terrible head wound you see."

"Would you like to be returned, then?"

She would never have thought to ask, but any moment now Axinita would be poking her head around the corner and she could really, really live without talking to that creature right now, when she wasn't even sure she could explain the last few minutes to herself.

"Yes."

She hadn't built this form with that in mind today, not like the variation she'd first used on Coyote Island, and so she sat and bowed her head and gripped the staff like it was a real thing and tried not to whimper too loudly as she vaguely heard his apologies over the overwhelming tide of pain engulfing her as he severed head and wings and sent her from the world...

_I never thought that I would be  
Fighting fascists in the southern sea_

Never had the slight dissociation of the world between worlds felt so good, so restoring and refreshing. 

She spun giddily with the sheer relief of it. She had got away, she had outrun the little stone priest with its piercing eyes and the tools the gods had given it to deal with creatures like her.

And there was something else, something in the back of her mind which had been unleashed and had lived in those moments... or died, perhaps...

She finally settled on the bench next to the jigsaw, the puzzle she had left for them; closing doors, cutting off escape routes, forcing the fleeing figure within herself to turn and stand forth against the shadows it was fleeing from.

It was a beautiful family portrait, but now it was somewhat inaccurate.

While Nightmare looked on, she fixed that.

_I can already taste the blood in my mouth  
We're going to a party way down south_


	30. Plans Within Plans

_You're falling through the night  
and giving in to bad dreams,  
where nothing is as it seems.  
There's still a long way to go._

New eyes set in an old face. The wemic in front of her looks as terrified as she feels, as she is hiding, quite well as it appears. Despite the striking differences in age and in constitution, every new creature needs a mother, even for just a few moments.

It is just a few moments ago that she had realised this was a new form, a new mind, not a simple combination or collaboration. It makes sense. This world is very different from the one she got on a boat from, just a couple of seasons ago, and of course she would produce a new her.

And this one isn't entirely new, is it? More something that she has been keeping hidden, keeping down, keeping suppressed since he was gone, the one who could channel this form into productive directions, creative directions, keep it from tearing itself apart.

But it has been five thousand years and the New World lies open before her. Surely there is space enough here, and interest, and time?

_And the fading glorious night,  
never seems to bring you home.  
You think that this is your road.  
There's still a long way to go._

"Oh, and we're thoroughly infested with Serpent cultists, of course. Like Brent. We like to keep some of them close, because we figure they'll do more damage if we don't know where they are any more; and they're useful, in their way."

She thinks this is important enough that she writes it in her notes. _tell Samahazai that Brent is a Serpent cultist, in case he didn't know._ She doesn't think for a moment of disbelieving it. She doesn't see why this source would lie to her about this.

_I can't give you an A to Z,  
there's some things I just can't show.  
Just try to disbelieve your eyes;  
For this I surely know - there's a long way to go._

"So many infants die before they wean."

The one in the back of her head laughs gaily, with only the slightest edge of hysteria. Her interlocutor is complex, dangerous, well-named... and the kind of creature she has been dealing with for the past thousand years.

It is the new and the alien, and the fractured messages that run in cascades through the underpinnings of this place, that she should fear. A little light conversation with the best of aristocratic pragmatists is something to be savoured.

_Like laughing in the dark,  
to keep the dogs at bay;  
No matter what you might say,   
there's still a long way to go._

You are running with swords in the dark and I can't read you, I can't read you, I can't see what you are doing. Are you simply playing this part so well that I cannot fault you, or do your interests and your presumed interests just happen to coincide?

"If you go back inside the palisade, tell the Scholars I'm still alive out here."

I would like to think that you are like me, that you are doing this because you want to, because the energy flows through you and through your weapons and your skill with them and demands that you hunt through the darkness for something to use them on.

I would like to think this, but I do not, because I am not stupid, and there are plans within plans you are no doubt working out even as you dash between camps to organise the Faithful, to rally those who would stand outside in the undead-infested storm and make them useful in defence.

Maybe it is just a matter of building trust, and of how your gods do not love the undead any more than mine.

_Cold comfort in the dawn,  
the dawn that brings you round,   
a pale light that you found,   
there's still a long way to go._

I part the tassles meekly so that you might see my identity. 

I do not know who you are working for. It would be entirely in character for you to be acting as their runner. It would not be unexpected if your next words were, "the Fidelians are looking for you," or "the Spine are looking for you," or "Auriel is looking for you."

But it is not the case. You simply nod, and allow me to carry on.

One day, I think, we will fight, you and I. If you are not dead by then, of course. But if not you, someone very like you, someone quick and clever in sword and word, someone who lives their life in the enemy camp and never misses a trick.

It will not be a fair fight. It will not be a clean fight. I will not face you myself, because that would be foolish. You will not be where my minions look for you, not the first place, not the second. You will have many friends and they will fight to the death for you.

Perhaps a different cataclysm will swallow us both before it happens. But I hope not. I look forwards to the fight, because you are a worthy opponent.

I look forwards to the look of dawning triumph in your eyes when Apharanta cannot kill you, and instead she lets you go.


	31. Forget Me

She stands on the deck and looks out across the sea, but it is not the water she is seeing. She is lost in memory again; the swelling waves are replaced by the rippling grasses of the savannah.

_The truth is, I have always been addicted to the world._

She is sitting with a group of wemics. They are definitely wemics now, not the creatures that they will later hunt to extinction. Soon, she thinks, they will not even be able to interbreed with those who have not been given the gift of the Gods. And these, these ones she is certain will continue to spread it. Already there are many here who are of the second generation, even the third, and in this circle she teaches them how to write.

But already there is trouble. The group she has assembled around her here, not just the readers but their mates and children and communities, are several prides together. In the first flush of communication such things seemed not to matter, but a hot summer has meant that even with the gift of speech and the improved thought, planning and co-ordination that it enables, food has been scarce.

They have already driven the humans from their encampment, back into the forests, and now some of them are eyeing the angel with suspicion. She still brings them knowledge, certainly, but she shares it equally with all who would ask her, and even seeks out those who might otherwise be cowed into not asking. Perhaps if she was gone, they would be able to develop their own tricks without her immediately finding them out and sharing them with the other prides.

_discontinuity_

It occurs to her, as the memory of her first sudden death causes the waves to fade back into view, that for the first time in a long time she was not seeing herself as Leticia in the early memories. Even these ones where it would scarcely have made sense to have a human appearance, the lady in her anachronistic hat and dress would be there. Now... now it was probably not how she had looked, but it was closer. It was Jennah who twisted her form awkwardly on the ground, injured and fading, to look up at her attackers and say, "Forget me, if you will, but remember the divine..."

Easier, somehow, in the dawn of the world, to be what she was meant to be. To teach, to guide, to be a creature of the gods; to think always of her missions and her charges and never of herself. Where had it gone wrong, and selfishness crept in? It could not have been only in the long years of mortal life, of masquerading as one of the favoured children however mean and crippled an impersonation it would always be.

If it had been, she would never have chosen that path. She would never have stolen the time she had spent with him, travelling far from those places she first appeared, following his trail around the world. She would never have considered that she could possess another angel, that she could have demands on the time of another servant of the gods. But the fear of death, of pain - that had obviously come later.

_discontinuity_

This mission was very different. This was no Comfort, or Advise. She emerged silently from the shrine under cover of darkness, sparing only a moment to admire the village wall. Those inside trusted in their fortifications, it appeared; no guards were on the door of the hut, nor a single one on watch inside. She had considered this mission for quite some time before taking it. Not her usual line of work, but it had persisted and become more insistant. A quick attempt at the direct route, and then to settle in for the long campaign when it inevitably failed.

But perhaps the direct approach would work. The tribe's chieftain lay alone in the attic of her hut, tonight's males consigned to the darkness beneath and sleeping soundly as the angel picked her way amongst them. Pulling herself up to the sleeping-shelf, Amaranth gently covered the chieftain's mouth with one hand, ready to grab hold of the jaw and smother the inevitable screams, and took the knife in the other.

Stab. Stab. Stab. Three neat wounds in the torso, holding the waking figure down and smothering her muffled cries. One across the throat. A gaze into her eyes. "This is for the death of the village by the brook," she stated as she cut, methodically, hearing the stirrings of the males downstairs at the sounds from her victim that she could not entirely keep at bay. "This is for the men and the children that you slaughtered, that you did not take in."

It was only half a minute until the first set of claws to scramble back from slumber leapt out of the darkness and bore the angel to the ground, but it was enough. Looking at what he had pinned, taking in the soft silver glow of the symbol shining forth from her forehead, the wemic paused. "This is not... your crime," managed Amaranth, the breath knocked from her form by the attack. "Do not... compound it..."

He turned to hold the others off, as she had hoped. There was a tug, an urge to keep cutting, to make sure the job was finished, but she resisted. The message had been delivered. Let the mortals show their virtue by letting it be upheld. Pulling herself to a sitting position, she drifted through the sounds of the ensuing argument into the darkness, and was no more.

_Probably the quickest mission I have ever done._

There, already - she had not wanted to be returned by the mortal, even though the job was finished and that was her next action in any case. Was it just pride? Performance anxiety? Had she really meant what she had said, that fatally attacking an angel was somehow wrong, even after it had completed its duties? Obviously she had been interested in encouraging mortals not to interrupt one in the middle of one's duties, and perhaps that was all it was.

Nothing but overthinking, she scolded herself. Not that there was anything but overthinking to do on this interminable boat voyage. She had been in such a panic when she had re-emerged on the streets of Terino, grabbing the nearest newspaper, almost fainting with relief that scarcely two seasons had passed. But even that was two seasons too many. Her determination had been as great as any imperative...

...she couldn't remember what it was. She couldn't remember which strand, so sparse and fleeting as they were out in the quiet lands she had always been used to, she had grabbed hold of like a drowning man and used to drag herself back down into the world. Perhaps that's what it was, after all - perhaps the gods had wanted her to return to the New World. At least that would help her excuse the dreadful haste and clumsy handling of closing her affairs and booking her passage, not even pausing to consider the lines of credit she could have pulled on to cover her obligations.

_discontinuity_

She returned to the Maelstrom in shock, not knowing quite what to do with herself.

(This wasn't Leticia either, she realised, back on the ship. At least, it was an earlier Leticia, shawls and kirtle rather than cloak and bodice, in undyed brown and grass green, and a headscarf, not a hat.)

She hadn't quite allowed it to sink in before, caught up first in her own affairs and then in the heat of sudden action. Why had she not seen it coming? She had been active, continuous almost, riding from place to place in order to return somewhere that she thought would call her back in short order. Not as continuous as those who had abandoned their mission entirely, perhaps, but even they were subject to misadventure, and lacked the information to plan their returns.

But they had been returning, and not by the will of the Gods. She had been at some of the supplications, seen the people crying out against the immortal lords who farmed their people like cattle, but she had not quite put it together. Maybe it was a local phenomenon, she had thought, or something that was obscurely the will of the Gods, that a directive to help a community had been taken the wrong way, or perhaps one to strengthen a community was being played as a long game, uniting the people against an intolerable reign of terror from the angel in question...

She knew, now, that it was not a local phenomenon. That somehow, it seemed the Gods hadn't quite put it together either, and now they were... overreacting?

No. No, there was a consistency to their actions, and one she had simply been ignoring all the long years, because it was a conclusion she could not bring herself to contemplate. Or two conclusions, rather, and she was not sure which one she liked the least.

The gods had brought souls to the mortals - so how could they let themselves be controlled by their creations?

The gods had given volition to the angels - so how could they assume meek obedience without further reward?

But how could she even make such analogies? The gods were not beings such as her, they were likely not even (each or together) an entity with a single soul, a single thread of consciousness that ran through and justified their actions, at least after the fact.

The gods were a force, an environment, a phenomenon, a fact of the world or at least an expression of those facts. They were not overreacting.

They were merely acting, as they always had and always would.

For a moment, she fancied herself to be in a high place: the kind of cliff-edge above the raging seas where you would sometimes find the clothes of some mortal or other, who had decided their life was too complicated or miserable or valueless to continue.

She was a long way behind. She had no nation, no cult, no book of Names that she could pull together. There were churches she had aided, kingdoms and tribes she had worked alongside, but she had worked within the establishment rather than building a new one of her own. The thought had simply not occurred to her before that she could need her own resources, seperate from those she could easily bend to her purpose, on account of their allegience to the gods who sent her.

No. She could not abandon the gods. She had attached herself too firmly to their service. But neither could she fight... could she fight them, fight _him_... in the form she wore now. In the _mind_ she wore now.

In an imagined mirror, she began to create her new self.

_discontinuity_

On the deck of the ship, Apharanta favoured the waters with an amused smile. _So you're the oldest now, Jennah?_

 _It wasn't something I chose to be,_ replied the wemic defensively. _I'm hardly me, anyway._

The smile dropped into a thoughtful expression. _Before Numenon,_ she asked herself, _before we changed ourselves, why were we not chosen then?_

 _We have always been addicted to the world,_ echoed Jennah. _Being chosen means being selective, means not answering every call._

Apharanta watched the waves go by, in their infinite variety, and _did not cry_ because that would be something that _Leticia_ would do.

After all, her tears would disappear; there was no way for her to contribute to the endless void of water.


	32. Blades of Grass

She is walking up a hill.

It reminds her. But the memories are vaguer now. Sometimes she thinks they fade into each other. Jennah's memories, Numenon's memories, are crisp and fresh. But the others. They are fading.

So many hills. Blades of grass wavering softly in the gentle breeze. Clouds chasing each other across the sky.

Every now and again, she pauses. Tries to take something in. The play of light in a flowing stream. A small pile of rocks by the side of the road. The sudden movement of a tiny lizard.

_Could I fix this in my mind's eye, if I wanted to? Could I create this? Could I become the world?_

Leticia would have always answered 'no'. Leticia would not have dreamed that she could be enough, could have enough, could remember enough.

Apharanta isn't so sure.

But something ties her here anyhow. Jennah's mocking laughter. _We are addicted to the world._ With all that she was new, some limitations were inherited.

Hopefully also some friendships.

She stumbles on.


	33. See the Colours

Silence and frost. 

Your knife at my throat.

I asked you for this. I expected this.

Thank the Weaver for the darkness so you cannot see my eyes.

I watch the contrast of orange against the green grass beneath your feet. 

The contrast of red blood just beginning to appear against the silver of your blade.

Night leaches the colours from the world, but I can see them. I can see the colours through the pain.

I can see the colours as bright as day, as your knife bites gradually deeper, more competent than paladins, more silent than the trees.


	34. Even Angels Cry

_I whisper, "You don't have to worry, we'll survive"  
Forced smiles underneath the brittle, frozen light  
No proof that you're alive_

the stars whisper you through the night as your long walk alone draws to a close as the estate and manor swim into view

you flow effortlessly through the atrium all sharp teeth and butterfly smile and you write three names on the dance card because you don't know who you are going to be today but nobody asks nobody questions and you move on to gaze awkwardly over the fine line between politeness and genuine delight and it feels like you haven't eaten in days because you haven't eaten in days and the cavalry comes and rescues you from the buffetting of the currents you once swam smoothly in and the Malathian offers him money for his king and it is all very civilised

you pull all the right faces and make all the right noises and here he is telling you as you demur and declare you have given up on plans and here he is with his orange fur and you are a conduit and you have forgotten the last time you did this out in the cold and the dark and the lightning, for you and for now it is new and precious and soft and warm, and they talk and they talk (she is crazy he broke her) and they talk and now you are sitting with an Amun-Sa Imam in the parlour of a Flembic lady and now you are standing in the main hall and listening to this painful singing

but you pull yourself up and declare you have nothing better to do and you follow the music follow the voices as they lift and _suddenly_ you hear a cathedral in her voice all soaring vaulted ceilings and filligree stonework and sweeping frescos and you are just trying to get a better look when the song comes to an end but then the host raises her voice and it is a military encampment with its campaign tents all in rows and flags and pennants flying and the walls and towers and battlements and you are flying over as the colours wave and the tiny men scuttle about their duties

and there is a tavern except sometimes it wants to be a fortified wall and maybe it is a tavern that is joined to a fortified wall and there is a barracks and there is a farm which is so evocatively real that you look at the flagstones and extend your will as if you are in the dream and you expect for a moment that resplendent ears of corn will unfold from the cracks but of course nothing happens and then the song ends and there is a college with long covered walkways and then you are listening to this one because the music is not quite a building but the words have a power you did not expect to see here

someone wins, someone loses, she counts down to ten and bells are ringing and you finally learn _which one of those men is Cyril_

* * *

_Cold fingers find the curve below your tired eyes  
No comfort in familiar places, not this time  
You hold it deep inside_

The last bird explodes into a cloud of brightly coloured feathers as the onlookers applaud.

Things are calmer than they were (tapping out the beat as they clash watching the blows land softly and thinking of a jungle and a snake with a club and his wits counting coup on the other tribe and she / he / it said the animals lacked curiosity so you told them of the monkeys even though you have never been there and you have only spoken with those who have but is it enough and what are you constructing for yourself) and you look at your hand and you look at the stone and you look at your hand

Surely you just need a walk to clear your head. The red native thorns sprawling triumphant by the carved stone steps alongside the careful lawn, you have already forgotten them although not their form, not their manifestation, just their existence for the moment as you watch the stone pass under your hand in the grey overcast light and you look at the tree and you look at the grass and you give it a kick and you look at your skirt and _it is not clear to you which one of them is more real any more_

You retreat to the hall. You explain that whilst the end of the world might not pause for Tea, the one serving it will not stop for such considerations until it is done. You overhear. You question. You (butterfly smile) arrange. You eat some of the most delicious orange and cinnamon tiffin. You attempt to watch the judging of the cakes, but you are not as inconspicuous as you once were. You are not as special as you once were. One of your kind lives among these people every day, took your plate yesterday, bandanna still affected but well clear of being the cause of any doubt.

Listening. Watching. Retreating. She... it... she... shows you the way up to the shrine. You look at the woodwork. You look at your hand. You look at the woodwork. You pick a plainer spot. Your eye is caught by the cloth. _In here it is just as real as it has always been._ In here, you are obviously the fake, obviously the facsimile, obviously the imitation. You flick through the hymnbook. You talk. You laugh. You are, well, arguably reasonably socially responsible, you suppose.

"The amount of fur on the nose" is almost as good as carrying a mokosh up the stairs.

* * *

_Oh sister, if you wake up in the night  
Walls are falling, letting in the light_

two hundred and thirty seven

you wonder if you should tell Kasadyenka that you can see her undergarments through her arming jack

the world pulls you back. too much observation. this is no use whatsoever. you can't stop looking. you can't stop being.

easy solution. the facet isn't here. got to be the paladin.

she asks you not to. you register the anguish. you repeat yourself. they have to learn. that's what numenon would say.

then of course you totally fail at the whole operation, "somewhere we won't scare the horses" indeed

no horses, but one scared avian

_discontinuity_

you are pretty proud of yourself

you couldn't quite form coherent words but you didn't scream or shiver or flinch much or do anything really embarrassing

Zoë falls across your shoulders like a cloak as if she had been waiting all this time even though you are still making embellishments as you go along

the fur masks some expressions and there is less of the butterfly teeth but actually she is not all that much different yet

the halberd settles her in place

_discontinuity_

The shrine is more populated than you expected.

No matter. You apologise gracefully. This form does less skipping. More stalking. You remember that the stairs were vertiginous in your swishing skirt and rainbow wings but you only remember this when you are already halfway down and notice that you have completely forgotten to be worried about them.

She is sitting on the floor as you enter the room. Not even a moment's flicker of uncertainty this time. Just a nod and straight on with what she was doing, which appears to mostly consist of lacing things up and looking slightly uncomfortable, swapping tired comments with the facet. You stand and listen. The rhythm of the preparations that the mortals are performing, the familiar eyes in different coloured fur (which distinctly perturbs certain internal sorting systems), the ebb and flow of staircase manoevering.

Finally there is a wall at your back and a place to stand and you feel as if you could stand here forever, or at least stand vigil, silent and straight and unmoving, no reaction to the swarming and pushing of the crowds. You watch them - your people - and you watch them - your people in a different sense.

After three passes, you conclude that you have no dance card.

You follow - this form is a follower - you follow her up and up...

* * *

_No need to worry  
Baby, even angels cry_

"Do you know this symbol?"

you felt the world shatter like broken glass

you thought nothing would ever be whole again

"Yes," you say. It is inadequate. It will always be inadequate.

For a moment, there is nothing. This was her problem, something tries to tell you.

No.

You would not let him get close to you because you knew something like this would happen.

"You appear to be in some distress. Is this correct? Can this one render any assistance?"

You cannot make a noise. You cannot make a fuss. Your breathing is a little ragged, perhaps.

No.

Someone has to do this. The parlour, the brandy, briefly flutter across your mind.

You stand there and you are calm and collected and you grieve.

Apharanta. Zoë. Jennah. Amaranth is crying.

"I needed him. He made things simple,

when I made them complicated."

* * *

_No flood warnings, still the waters rise  
Flowers through asphalt, Diamonds in the pockets of your eyes  
Turn your face and hide_

She turned over the pieces of glass.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

They lifted it over the step together.

\---

"I am not sure whether I can talk to you."

"Why?"

"Because I think you might still be saved."

\---

"I am afraid that I will have to warn you; this room currently contains Awful Philosophical Debate. I can give no warrenties regarding your mental or spiritual health if you choose to remain here."

\---

You look at the nobleman skeptically.

He claims to have abandoned all pretense at civility when he accepted the warning.

You look over at the facet, experimentally.

"No, no, I'd like to hear," it claims. "And anyway, didn't you say that you were attempting to break Auriel's toys?"

You look over the assembled, conspiritorially.

Later, she leaves rose petals on the shrine.

\---

There is a distinct similarity, you believe, between one of these truffles and _really good sex._

* * *

_I saw a woman with ribbons in her hair  
Old and lonely, so beautiful I had to stop and stare_

"I still have to talk to him."

The paladin watches you hesitate at the threshold.

"I could go and fetch him for you?" she offers, distractedly.

You look over the remaining inhabitants of the shrine, gently accreted over the past few hours.

"No," you say, "it needs to be somewhere private." You sigh. You feel socially responsible.

"Fuck it. Let's do this." In one forceful motion you stand and grab the halberd against the wall.

Then you sweep out of the shrine for the first time since...

It's not that bad. You have a mission, after all.

You find him.

And there is an architect to comfort and you tell her you will be upset if he gets away again,

and eventually you get him out under the stars (you assume there are stars) and you ask.

* * *

_The well will not run dry_

It is very late. The kind of late which turns into early.

You head out into the porch. It has been a long night, but already you cannot quite remember what it was which made you so upset. The moment triumphs over the past.

There's a lot of uncertainty on the air. There's a lot of change in the air. It's hard to put water back in a bottle.

But you're pretty sure that you will weather it - or not, as you decide. You have options. Maybe soon they will have options too.

Maybe soon they will have options too. You look out into the darkness. You would like to see the stars again.

You head out onto the terrace, away from the light, and look up into the sky.

It is blank. It is black. It goes on forever. It might swallow you.

You stumble backwards, as if blown by an unseen wind.

Clinging to the building, to the sight of your people,

you say,

"Where are my fucking stars!?"

\---

"It is just overcast. You can see the clouds over by the dawn."

She is silent. It goes to investigate.

You do not say, "The correct response to that is _not_ to go and _investigate_. The correct response to that is, 'yes, Lady Angel, you are just over-reacting'".

Twenty-one.


	35. the wind in your wings

_with my eyes closed_

the wind blows through the trees

the wind blows through the trees and through your fingers and across your outstretched wings

you take one last look at needles

then you sweep inside

\----

_I'll look closer_

You sweep the room with a worried gaze. So much practice for this moment, so many of the journey's landscapes occluded by his face, his voice.

There he is, standing on the other side of the room, facing away from you. Sweeping across the floor, skirts a-flutter, you silently position yourself at his right shoulder. Then you chirp, bright and cheerful, as if you had only popped around the corner for a drink: "Surprise!"

He seems glad to see you, although you maybe noticed then and maybe project on him now the shadow across his features that keeps his welcome from being as exuberant as you might have hoped - as you did hope, in some of your scenarios, in some of your projections.

"If you had gone on one of those hundred-year sulking sprees, I would have had to come and get you."

You aren't even thinking about it. You don't even think about it until afterwards. _Would you come and get me?_ Isn't that what you want to ask him, what you wanted to ask him, what was on your most optimistic projection of this meeting? Of course, it didn't go like that. You get to use a little of your prepared speech, anyway, even though all the flattery you had prepared seems somewhat hollow and unnecessary now.

It gives you a rather familiar feeling when he asks you what you are good at. The glimmer of what you were made for, struggling to break free. _Purpose._ You can be useful to someone, even slightly, even fleetingly, even though you're almost sure they're just doing you a favour by letting you think that you are useful. Someone is going to _tell you what to do,_ someone you trust, someone you... no, that thought doesn't come until later, when it is a cold thought rather than a warming one.

You lose twelve more riel, because you don't want to give him the chance to abandon you, because you want to be worth something to someone. Charity is false. A debt is an obligation on both sides, on both parties. A debt is a bond. A debt makes you more useful, even as it demonstrates your negative value. You wonder giddily if you should tell him that you were just recently manifested as a white-furred wemic.

"Yes, but they're human analogues on a myrmidon base," you apologise, as you take your gloves off.

He says that he is tired. That his wife has retired for the evening but will be around tomorrow. That this is not a poisonable offence. You pay so little attention to the game you are engaged in that half a round of betting happens before you look up and note that you're still in.

There isn't a chance of making a move, anyway, regardless of how bad an idea it would be in more general and less immediate terms. After the little incident with the other faithful - ah, we'll get to that - there wasn't time to go and wash, and you don't want to explain it.

You sing an improvisation off the top of your head and everyone listens, and it doesn't mean anything because he isn't there, and you retire.

\----

_I'll always remember_

It was a perfectly ordinary request at dinner. After the last two gatherings she is no longer surprised, although she wonders what the application will be this time. And there is something that lifts itself out of the cocoon when the Ophidian says, "You are a messenger, yes?"

There are false memories that rise unbidden to the surface, false memories of a different life, but no less vivid for all that. Dreams of rivers and dreams of monkeys and dreams of lily-pads as long as a man, floating lazily through the jungle.

If she doesn't think about it carefully, it is not at all clear what is reality and what is falsehood.

There is a man, and they have taken all his weapons. She considers briefly, as they slip into the dark forest behind the barracks, whether she could tear out his throat with her all-too-human teeth, could tear a bough from a tree and drive it into his chest at a moment of vulnerability. It had seemed so sensible not to manifest any weapons when she had been thinking about it earlier, but she knew...

What did she know? What evidence did she have? Why should she not just enjoy the moment?

There is a man, and they have taken all his weapons, apart from the one that he was born with.

"Try feeding him less Flame, next time," she observes as she returns him to his keepers with a shove.

\----

_juggernauts screaming to a stop_

He isn't there all morning, but when he finally shows up at lunch it is all really quite promising, until the cards ruin everything.

"And this is the card of, well, an absent father figure. Or someone who you should be able to turn to, but they are too busy being selfish to attend to your needs..."

She says it isn't him, but he doesn't believe her.

\----

_sound like devils are laughing_

"I don't think it will be that one."

(oh gods don't crush him when he's just starting to show he still has an interest)

"But it's like her, see, because it's, like, a cat, but with wheels!"

"It's an Amun-Sa general in his chariot."

"Oh. So, not his wheels."

"No, not his own wheels."

She takes the Chariot from him gently and replaces it in the pack.

(oh gods when he cut the pack by just taking the top card and that is just like _him_ , just like the one I should be _over_ )

"I think we'll go with the Hanged Man."

And she deals out the pattern while she is chanting something under her breath, just below the level where any words would be audible.

(there's the dragon again but it is upside down this time. that makes sense. _angels barely exist_ )

"Okay. So, this one is what covers you. It generally means journeys - in the sense of adventures..."

There is a picture of a ship. Journeys. Adventures.

"Like missions?" he asked.

"Yes, maybe like missions," she replied, but she seemed unconvinced.

(is there a journey? at least, it hasn't ended yet, unlike some of the others, maybe)

"And this... is what crosses you." She pauses.

(the memory of this card has been replaced by a swarm of purple bat wings - but that was his card - and the sound of hollow laughter)

"This is the worst card in the pack," she says. "It means betrayal - but not just that - betrayal by the ones you hold most dear..."

"I had a dream about that on the way here."

She seems unnerved.

("I've never done this for an angel before.")

She moves on to the past.

"This is about a conflict... something which turned on a knife-edge. And it's inverted. Which generally means it turned the wrong way..."

Bitter laughter rising unbidden. For a moment it appears things will be left unsaid.

"Now for your strengths." It is covered in suns. "This one means independance - being your own master - not answering to anyone. I guess that's appropriate for an angel - you only have to answer to your gods."

This is not, quite, a butterfly smile.

"Or maybe it's saying that you work best in the places between - that you have some leeway, right, and you know how to use it to your best advantage..."

"So," he says at last, "is this where you tell us that actually you've recently Fallen?"

"I haven't been that stupid yet."

The words are out before any thought is given. No-one follows them up.

"This one represents your goals, your ambitions," she explains. "This card is usually associated with creativity..."

"With building."

It's a myrmidon with a hammer. It really couldn't be any clearer.

"This is scarily accurate."

"Do you think it would give a different result in a different form?"

"I don't know... this is about all of me... I don't know if it should be more or less accurate for an angel. I mean. Mortal souls leave wider traces... but immortal ones are more closely attuned..."

"Anyway, let's get back to the reading."

"I'm afraid this card symbolises hope, but as you see it is inverted."

Resonance. Laughter. The black wall of the future rushing straight at the face of the present.

"But the card is still hope. Hope inverted means that it is more important to hold onto hope - that you're probably feeling very pessimistic about your future, but there can be hope even in the darkest places."

"Well, I guess that's all the end of the world stuff you've been going on about."

"And this one, which also symbolises you, is... innocence."

(well surely that isn't fooling anyone)

"It can also mean a charming naievity..." She doesn't say 'that you're putting on deliberately', but the inferrance is there for the taking.

She reaches for the dragon. "And this is the people around you."

(no. wait. that's not right. surely that's not right. that's not what you mean?)

"What this means, inverted, is that the people around you are less significant than you think - or that you are more significant than them..."

(no. no. these people. they are significant. they are people rather than nothing)

(but everything else has been right)

(if i am significant it means that i need to do something, that it can be my fault)

I wasn't listening over the third card, the Ace of Wings, the card which had caused so much trouble for me already that day. Inverted, this time. It was only after the crowds dispersed and I was preparing for my next journey that I realised that it was a checkered mask. Hopes or fears... how could I tell which it was? A missing father figure.

"And the last card... the future... is the Fallen, inverted."

She seemed awkward about providing much commentary on this. But I could piece it together from the last description. Inverted. It turns out the people you thought you could trust in - you can trust in them, they are worthy of your trust.

"So maybe that means you won't Fall after all," she said. "That you will stay loyal despite everything. And maybe that's the only true loyalty."

\---

_I wanted to see  
I wanted to see  
I wanted to see this for myself_

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Well," he said, straightforwards as ever, "yes, I would, actually."

"You shouldn't believe me, if I told you. That's why I've given you references. Look them up."

\---

_These dark pubs we drink in_

Fluttering. Can't decide. Can't sit still. Can't watch him with this sadness. No seats.

The words go through your head several times, different angles, different plans of attack, and in the end it's all wasted effort.

No consensus. Maybe he's enjoying watching the people playing their dice game. Maybe he wouldn't appreciate you interrupting his listening. No consensus.

You start to tell him about something - forms, history, worries - the content is irrelevant - but you are interrupted every time.

Not by her. Not by him. By other people; by announcements; by a bit of everything.

\----

_somehow light up_

It's a bit like dancing.

It's a bit like a battle.

You haven't got the hang of it the first time.

You laugh as he is crowbarred off his chair.

Not hollow this time.

You join the second round at their request.

You swish your skirt, like you were dancing.

Only two of you left.

It's all about lines of attack, about layers.

It's all about tactics, about relative space.

The music stops.

It looks like you are at a disadvantage.

It just means you have more leverage.

One sweeping motion hooks the chair out from under the Field-Marshal and you are sitting on it before you really catch up to the fact that the manoever worked.

You were sure she would be holding on to the chair. You were sure she would have anticipated your tactics.

She sits on the floor with impeccable decorum and only a little surprise around the edges.

You sit on the chair, dazzled by victory. If only real problems were so trivially solved.

But then, you remember, people regularly beg you to stay.

Perhaps real problems can also be solved.

Perhaps you are the one to do it.

\----

_when I'm with you_

The wind blows through the bare trees.

Water falls from the sky.

She is sure fangs should not be pretty.


	36. Layers; Wolves; Blood

Sasagani.

You are not what I expected.

I did not expect to see you without a weapon. I know this is your home, but even the traders carry weapons in their home when they invite others in.

I did not expect to see you singing.

I expected that you would be, at most, an officer; one apart from the common man by rank, as well as by upbringing and by marriage and by ferocity.

I am glad that I was wrong.

\----

On the first layer: you attempt to look harmless.

On the second layer: it is good to hunt in a pack.

We circled you, Beornwulf, cornered you, like the lone wolf who had not been keeping enough of an eye on the wild dogs that sought to bring it down.

On the third layer: the white on her face reminds me.

They have run the streets much longer than they have had a Cougar to run with, and this time as I pace in their footsteps I am the predator rather than the prey.

On the second layer: it is your blood, isn't it?

On the first layer: it is good to see you smile.

\----

This time, I get close enough to look at the symbol.

Hmm. It's like that, is it?

This time, when we exchange a few words, I can taste the craftmanship behind the excuses.

I can see who you speak to.

Who else wears their own blood as a badge of honour.

But which path do you follow?

This time, I cannot see through the forest to the fire, and I am distracted in any case.

I do not pursue your secrets.

Fortunately for us both, Beornwulf, you're not my problem yet.


	37. Need

these people are not as significant as you think they are

they are nothing but a flutter of distractions to you

flowing through your fingers like the wind

you paint the most ridiculously incriminating thing you can think of and nobody notices or cares

you hear your lies reflected back to you

fluent deceptions under an empty sky

you shake out your wings

chameleon

chimera

angel

...

you have no use for dignity

but you have not internalised this yet

you speak your lines with pride and confidence

you can make the most meaningless things have meaning

you can project importance on the most empty and trivial occurances

you can still shine here  
you can still dream  
you can still belong here

but as soon as you have told her you realise it is not true any more

that you act out of habit and not knowing what to do next

the people that surround you are not as significant

protective camoflage like the wings

like your butterfly face

...

a series of realisations

I do not have to be polite

I do not have to sit here and listen

I do not owe you anything

I do not need to be bound

I do not need to be valued

I do not need clear skies

I do not need to stand and gaze at the stars

I do not need you to follow me

I do not need a pet human  
I do not need a pet angel  
I do not need to be loved

Apharanta is made for surviving  
(all of me is made for surviving  
but this is not a time to hide  
this is not a time to wait it out  
this is a time to take risks)  
Apharanta is made for being here

Every moment is long enough  
Every second is an experience  
Something to keep us through the drought

Maybe it will not come

A thousand years ago  
I lead an army through the mist  
They would not be up to your standards

The kind of equipment you dismiss  
Each of these children of the land would kill to own  
Would die so that their comrades could possess such things

But what we have is enough  
Wood and pitch and flesh and bone  
And the will of the Huntress in our hearts

Of course it did not change anything  
But everyone caught in the manor was dead

Maybe it will not come

Apharanta is made for being here  
Apharanta is made for taking risks

Like those children of the land  
I will use any weapon  
If it will give me any advantage  
I will forget all of my caution  
I will break all of my rules  
I will destroy everything which I love  
and I value  
and I consist of

I will give away my last possession

"You should spend some time in the Land of Flowers. I think the you that you would become would be... interesting? Pleasing? Useful."

I would risk everything  
to be something new  
to find out if we can change

to be ready to remake the world  
when you break it  
when they break it  
when we break it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Golden Moon party


	38. Masks and Paper

Ash and armour and bones.

She carries it back and stays with them and butterfly smiles and makes all the right noises.

And she goes to see her afterwards and makes her laugh and smile and loses herself in philosophy.

She plans out the pamphlets in her mind's eye while the last words resound through her head.

Masks and paper and mute, cold ink.

She should not have been hiding.

She should have been listening.

She will not tell them.

She will not ask them.

All that is left to this mortal world is endings.

\---

At first I take you for just another Freibodener, too numerous to name here, but the way Amelia talks to you - she expects competence and her judgement on such matters is rarely wrong.

I don't manage to acquire a name to call you by - later I discover it is Carol - but I like to think I will remember your face, and not just your cascading golden hair which spreads over the table beside me, a much cleaner and more innocent pool of blood.

\---

"People... do that, then?"

When an Amun-Sa says that they inherited a bunch of people, I usually assume they mean slaves.

It looks like I should just stop making assumptions about Parnassus. It never helps.  
Builder bless.

\---

I have a little self-control.

I don't shudder when you point out the acrostic.

I had such grand plans for Potch, but they all seem a little pointless now. He was right. No-one truly wants to join us in our meaningless eternity. 

Sending you off on a quest for that would be foolish, not that I fool myself that I could bid you in any case. You are all a lot more dangerous than you look, shining guilelessly in the candlelight amongst friends.


	39. Chosen

She watches him heading off through the bustle of arriving caravans and pitching tents.

The dice are cast now. She has chosen her lie. It is so good that she almost catches herself believing it.

Maybe it will prove true.

Here in the midst of everyday concerns about war and life and death, it seems starkly implausible that the world might end.

\---

The world is carrying on beneath her, as she pauses in this timeless moment.

Somehow it seems she is always aware of that now, that time is passing even in this place where it has as little meaning as it possibly can. But she does not know the nervous-looking gentleman in red and she can't find the one who is just a name and it didn't work too well when they had a hole to head out undirected.

The sudden lack of urgency is disorienting.

She knows there are people she could tag around after, plans she could interfere with, things that she could do in the guise of Aiding the Faithful or Opposing the Undead or Fighting the Fallen, but it seems like every time she does something like that is a time when everything goes wrong, when she goes wrong.

And for once she leans backwards and floats above the world and waits.

She waits to be sent, just as it was in the beginning.

She is coming home to her first self at last.

\----

He gestures at the gap between the encampments, clear as day from this angle.

"Do you, then, consider the world to be your community?" I venture.

I knew I had lost when he said that he did not.

"There are things in it that I would destroy," he explains.

She thinks, _threats do not have to be external,_ she thinks, _I wish I could change them,_ she thinks, _time for plan B then._

The ghost of Beornwulf hangs heavy in the air between them, although, she thinks, only for her.

She watches as Samahazai leads him down the garden path and she thinks, _at least this means Havoc will stay strong._

It is at least amusing that this last thought is, she's fairly sure, quite the opposite of what her colleague would have wanted.

\---

I sit in the shrine which is not a shrine and the tears rise unbidden.

_it's difficult, because I know Abassa is cleverer than me, and I think Alfas is too_

"Do you require any assistance, blessed seraph?"

I notice, distractedly, that I have stopped twitching when they call me that. I look up at him. I do not think it is obvious that I have been crying.

"She normally rises quite late," he informs me.

I say something stupid about talismans. I don't want to be having this conversation.

He is not my problem any more.

I don't remember his last words to me. Something like, Best wishes, or Good luck, or whatever he says instead of that.

"And you," I whisper, but he is already gone.


	40. Edgeways

I look over the food and I make comforting noises at the assembled wemics, at Noah and Mojay, as I try to find out where my target is.

Since when did I become so focussed?

Since it became my best survival strategy again, I guess.

The respectable ladies flutter around whilst I stand there with my ragged headscarf and my burning purpose.

As much as I'm an angel in this moment...

Under their gaze I still feel like a whore.

\---

I see Amelia heading towards the fire and I wonder if she will recognise me in this form and I turn away.

I want to speak to him first.

If this is going to go badly, this isn't where I want it to start.

But you recognise me anyway, you call me on my identity and I smile in confirmation.

Then we head out into the darkness and you tell me that you are on drugs and I tell you the lies I have prepared.

Later, you ask me again.

He seems more angry than you are, which makes no sense to me.

We stand in the sunlight and this time I get to use it all, the entire prepared conversation that I have been rehearsing.

It sounds oddly hollow to me.

Later, I make you laugh.

I will invite you out to that sun-dappled forest, you and whoever you have chosen, and together we will make truth out of these lies.

\----

I see you sitting there, Pew and Nefertiri, barely changed from your mortal forms - like it is the most natural thing in the world.

The symbol etched clearly on your brows, that I have to think for a moment to identify.

You greet me weakly, caught in this waiting room between the worlds, hardly the heaven you have been promised.

Later I sit and I listen and I wish.

I wish that he was here and I wish that I was the one you are talking to and I wish that you were mine.

But you are not, and they are not, and I am not.  
And you fade.

\----

"You would suggest that, wouldn't you? That is not our way in Amun-Sa."

You do not realise how those words hurt me, Sha, sitting here on the grass in my headscarf and my fur.

I think you do not realise how your words hurt her, either.

\----

Ways to tell you are in the New World, one in a continuing series:

The butler is openly wearing heavy armour.

Tom Steele.

\----

This is why I stand with you, Sasagani.

This is why I stand with you, even though you are not my natural allies.

This is why I stand with you, even though it would be easier to embrace your enemies.

"For I have a great hope of glory in my soul."

The drunk soldiers have quieted each other for this.

They join in quietly, making sure not to drown you out.

They join in quietly, rough voices following the tune that you have set.

"For I have a great hope of glory in my soul."

And I feel my voice swell and add to the chorus, even though I have no right to claim these words.

"For I know I have and I feel I have..."

This is why.

You have taken something from the ashes of your history and the insanity of this world and made it beautiful and fragile and precious and new, and I will not see them destroy it.

I have a great hope of glory in my soul.

For you, and for yours.

\----

"And Abassa hates me."

"She doesn't hate you," he insists. "She told me that you held her while she took oco and now she likes you."

I want to tell you. I want to tell you so badly. If I was a devotee rather than an angel I would have told you already. I might not have even done it in the first place.

But I am an angel, so I sit with you in the sun and I hand you the parasol and I hold you, and the people in the tent assume I'm on oco too and I begin to understand why Jason likes watching people take drugs.

I even insist on taking you into the Flembic camp because I don't want to be left holding you when information is on the menu, and that's also the correct decision.

And I don't tell you.


	41. Pillars

"And then I saw four pillars..."

She brings them the interpretation of their vision. It is disarmingly simple, elegant, when you get down to it.

The end of the world isn't happening any more. Gods knew what they would be left with, but she had seen his bright face as he told her that he knew how to fix it, and felt that strange kind of shifting feeling as all of her plans slid through her hands and scattered themselves across the floor. The end of the world isn't happening any more.

The totems are rattling the bars and Samahazai has a crazy mission and there is something about gardens...

But it isn't the end of the world.

\----

They're all just fucking distractions.

She still can't shake the apocalyptic thinking, even after the end of the world is indefinitely postponed by Science. Tomorrow doesn't matter. Yesterday doesn't matter. Today is all there is. She can let herself get attached to mortals and spurn the company of angels and do what she feels like because everything will be different tomorrow anyway, everything will be so undescribably different that there are no rules that she can apply.

So she might as well make the best of it, and she guesses that's what they're doing too, although she smiles as she hears how much they are having the shit kicked out of them. Yeah, you stupid fuckers, why don't you all just kill each other and leave more breathing space for the rest of us? It's going to get pretty crowded in here what with the blockade and the slavers and the ghosts of past revolutions playing themselves out again. Oh, you lived here first? What a pity. We lived first and a lot of fucking good that's done us, hasn't it?

The sky is full of stars and the wood is full of bluebells and the world is full of life, and she even spends a moment looking at a leaf or two in between chasing the glowing one through the woods, and somehow they're still not all dead, just like him. And some part of her says she should be looking and she should be recording and she should at least be enjoying this, but all she wants to do is kick the whole goddamn world in the head.

Or find somewhere to sit down and cry.

\----

She creeps onto the field under the cover of darkness, because the location of a certain object had burnt out the knowledge of the location of her other cache, because she had fallen off a cliff looking for it...

Because she had not faced the battle she expected out there, in the place between places, but had not spent enough time there to be sure it was not still in her future.

A map, half-remembered.

That must be the Flembic encampment. She veers, heads out into the darkness. Familiar faces loom out of the shadows. She ducks most of them - but the facet, that will do. Obtains directions, narrowly avoids becoming mugged in the dark, again. Stupidest fucking excuse ever. Do they hear how pathetic she sounds as she pleads, I'm an eidolon, there's no point in killing me? Probably they weren't going to anyway.

She hopes they weren't going to anyway, because otherwise they really need to up their game, letting her get away with that.

Walks through the entire back of the Havocstani encampment. Peers at the groups around the fires. Not a voice raised, not a challenge. She could have dragged an entire army through the back of this camp and they wouldn't have batted an eyelid. Most of them are drunk. She guesses some of the Mill'enese might be slightly dangerous. She resists the urge to poke around in their tents. No need to be a scavenger today.

She walks out through the front gate as the last few guardsmen pack up their watch, a comprehensive show of negligence... or confidence.

Walks back to the Freiboden. They actually have a gate guard. The gate guard actually confronts her. No, it is not that Havoc are complacent because they have won some great victory, as certain pessimistic angels had been fearing on the way. Freiboden and the Alliance are intact, everyone has walked onto the field without incident, everyone is being very polite and eyeing the other side cautiously, no decisive advantage. She pushes them, recounts the state of the Havocstani defences, knowing that there are many more of Mill'en in camp than of Havoc and those few that remained would probably be clear anyway.

They don't take her seriously. They have the will to mount a guard, but they do not have the will to fight, not so late, not tonight.

Deposits her burden in safe hands, or familiar hands in any case. A confrontation in the darkness. She tells the avian to check him for bleeding, but he's hopeless and while they are still arguing about what to do with the gentleman, his soul steals away. It's not like there was anything that could be done, barring the conventional methods, which didn't look like they held much promise. Very few ways to deal with that one.

Dragging the body away.

Out in the firelight she deposits it, hoping that she has proved her credentials just a little more this day, by this action. Not sure what she will be using them for yet.

And then there is song, then there are voices lifted against the darkness in defiance and in hope, in good cheer and the pre-emptive claiming of victory. Yes. Here. She is rooted in the world again. Almost, she belongs.  
Link


	42. for all the world is hollow and i have touched the sky

_I am complete within myself. I depart from the world and I take it with me._

This festival she walks in the light as the mortals fall like autumn leaves around her. Ties up loose ends. Pays off debts. Knows that she does not let it show when they hurt her.

Gives up her last possession. In a crowd of people. Twice.

Letting go. Coming home. Watching their faces shine with astonishment as they thank her. It is so easy, so automatic, such smooth sailing to do the things that she was designed for.

"Perhaps we'll have an active angel next festival," he says.

\----

"And you'll have to give me your true name, though I'll give you mine in return."

And here, in that crowded place, full of expectant faces - it feels fine. Natural. Inevitable. The cheerful, breezy, blissful smile as one folds one's arms and leans gently backwards and lets the wind bear you over the edge of the cliff, and for a moment you can see nothing but the clear blue sky: all-encompassing, all-embracing.

The little blonde Freiboden cherub is there also, and for a moment there is the thought, what would you think of me, if you knew my story?

Is there a world in which we could sit down and compare notes, over a drink or two, of the sordid little parties we have been to, the lovers we have had and lost and maybe never meant to find again in the morning? Is there a world in which we could be people, and you would laugh and you would understand?

And that patch-trousered Malathian sorceress never does give me her Name.

\----

"I just need someone from the Crossed Keys, preferably adequately armed and armoured."

I can't even tell Raoul apart from Drake, not reliably, although I know I should be able to. There are glimpses of you, moments; angry in the darkness beside her, kneeling in the shrine, dashing from the gate at the sound of trouble.

When I find out that she is dead, I will blame you.

\----

Something not quite connected.

Something not quite right behind the eyes.

I sit with you; I talk with you; I conclude business.

I thought maybe that I would get some trust in return, but it seems that I am mistaken.

I think that I see you, briefly, in the eyes of a young wemic navigator, but it is just an illusion.

I wonder how much else I didn't know about you, Amelia.

\----

You are sitting wide-eyed with the Marshalls; standing wide-eyed with the Bastet; sitting wide-eyed with the Imam.

With, with, with.

And somehow I want to tell Noah, the thing I have learned, that the fence is the least comfortable place in the New World to sit.

But you wouldn't listen if I told you. You wouldn't even listen if she told you. I didn't listen when they told me.

You will have to find out for yourself.


	43. In The Bright Light Of The Sun

The blades tear through the fragile form...

You have been here before. So many times. So many times this season.

Your allies retreat into the walls. You can't quite muster the strength to turn and see. You can't quite muster the coherence to prop yourself up.

The scene plays out, far beyond your ability to intervene. In the bright light of the evening sun. In the bright light of the strange dreamlike clarity of pain.

She runs across. Where is her backup? Where are the others? Where is her backup? Your friends are pinned inside the walls. She goes down.

The swords go up. The swords go down. Crazed with agony, you scream your warning.

"Kasadyenka is down! They're executing Kasadyenka! The undead are executing Kasadyenka!"

The world slides out of focus. Everything is on fire. You are on fire. The swords go up. The swords go down.

How long has it been, this eternal moment?

An ally approaches. Cautious from the side. You weakly cry out, "go and stop them, go and stop them," but there is one of him and he is lightly armoured and he hesitates.

They are all around her like insects on carrion like worms on spoiled meat like pirhanas on a downed swimmer and it is too late when the cavalry come.

Your form is broken and stable, broken and twisted and stubbornly clinging to the world, and it is a relief when one of your enemies - not even a friend - takes you away and kills you.

\---

I go through the motions.

I tell her about their plans. I listen to her information.

I give her a hug and I tell her to take care.

I laugh at their banter. I sip peach tea and watch the flames.

I go through the motions, but I know.

I know when I go to see her and instead come back with a blessing.

I know when I can't even stay because I can feel the pull of it.

I do not fear death any more.

I do not fear death any more because I am already dead.

I killed a part of myself. I killed a part of myself, and it was the part which knew how to be a person.

I killed it just in time. I killed it before he left. I killed it before she died. I killed it before all my people started dropping like flies.

I am dead. I am no longer here in any meaningful sense. I am a passenger in my own form, in my own body.

I can only watch as the form moves and listens and speaks and fights, it is best when it is fighting, it is the purest and most essential of moments.

I am dead, and the burning fire of the Will is the only thing that animates my still-twitching form.


	44. Hidden Pathways

"I think you've got that wrong. It doesn't take away from eidolons... it empowers them..."

I realise that I'm doing that thing with my hands again, that thing where I try to pass them through dimensions which don't quite exist. It reminds me of the ritual site.

Hand covering the wood. Pass in front of my eyes. Move it out of my field of vision. It's not like that moment when I realised that reality was draining from the world. It is more real and less real at the same time.

How much is the consecration, and how much is the building itself? He swears blind it's a Merchant consecration, but I know Athlete when I feel it, and that is Athlete.

I cry out after him, pointlessly, knowing that he's not listening. "I can't help what I am!"

\----

"I can't help what I am."

Then, small, brown and hopeless, I began to cry.

(Now, I want to shout to the skies, to tell him I followed his advice; but because I have, I no longer can...)

"I can't help what I am."

We sit and make plans; three unlikely outsiders; three chimerae together. Impossible, foolish, beautiful plans, like butterfly wings.

"I can't help what I am!"

It is the most genuine, heartfelt thing I have said all festival. It does not pass through my conscious mind; it comes tearing straight out of the depths of my changeless soul.


	45. The Long Days

She stalks up to the kill and takes her turn as first of the females, ensuring she is seen, that she smells like one of the pack. Later, the alpha will attempt to stand aside for her, and she will hiss at him in their newfound tongue to get on with asserting himself. He should not look weak in front of the others. They might have no coherent thought, but they still have sharp enough teeth and claws. Later, when she gives the blessing to his daughter, she wonders whether one day the pattern will be reversed.

Not here, it appears, many thousands of years later. She watches the women patiently make themselves nonthreatening; the alpha male stalks and preens, although privately he is unsure of his position as ever they have been, and the betas clutch their weapons nervously and attempt not to wonder who will be the next to die, and who will be the next to take the poisoned chalice of the alpha's place.

Not here, but elsewhere. The Tritoni might have been too sensible to stay on these shores in any number, but there are still plenty of them somewhere over the ocean. Maybe some spark of that young girl-child remains with them there; or maybe it resides in the whispered river's-name that calls to those headscarfed girls, returns the fire to their eyes and the wind to their hair.

\----

She eats the temple offerings, when they're not looking. It makes her feel kind of obscurely guilty, but she keeps doing it anyway, and soon enough it has become a tradition. He laughs when she offers him a share, says that he ate a good craftman's breakfast over in the labourer's barracks that morning, thank you very much. "Do they really think the gods eat it?" He laughs, but she actually takes it quite seriously, she worries that she's been misleading them.

He moves on faster than her, of course; he moves on when his job is done, and she lingers, even now, even then. She tells herself that her good work will be undone if no-one is there to eat the offerings, if they think the gods have abandoned them. She misses him terribly, though, and the small town begins to grate on her as they make no progress after that first glorious shrine. Eventually, she appoints a few children to be in charge of ensuring the meals of the gods are eaten, and she leaves.

\----

Numenon does not eat. He does not sleep. He spends all the long days of the war awake and on his feet, right up until the form collapses and he goes and gets a new one and continues. He is not a negotiating angel. He does not break bread with the mortal factions they are attempting to control. He does not share the meals of the common soldiers. He does not join in the celebratory feasts or acknowledge the gifts of grateful scavengers in the ruins of their cities.

There is only the war. An endless round of fights that he is dropped into again and again; an endless round of hide and seek, jogging across forests and grasslands and deserts on the trail of his prey; a little bit, now and again, of staring facelessly at his opponents until they break down and tell him everything. Some jostling and organising, of course. His brethren have never been able to organise their way out of a paper bag. But certainly no time to eat.

Identifying with the mortals, staying in the world too long, not staying on your toes: that way lay madness and defeat. And that was not what he was built for.

\----

Missing breakfast was never a good sign. Breakfast helped define the day, and usually she could manage to put together at least a few sips of water and some leaves, at least something to tell her body that she was trying. It was convenient in those moments, not being able to become poisoned or ill, even though at other times she feared it marked her out too obviously amongst the sick and malnourished she generally lived amongst.

But missing breakfast could turn into missing lunch, and missing dinner, and neglecting the form, and then there would be wear and tear. And as much as she didn't sicken, she didn't repair either, especially from the results of clumsiness or actual mistreatment. Every significant breakage would stay with her until she took the hideous plunge into the long darkness once more, to emerge maybe decades later and have to re-establish her life all over again, have to conquer the nagging guilt and awkward passion that taking an imperative always left her with.

Often she could do fairly well for breakfast, even out here on the periphery. She had need to care for her body, certainly, but she couldn't become pregnant and she couldn't get any diseases, and she stayed comely more readily than those who had to worry about a real metabolism and having grown up with inadequate food and shelter. The soldiers and the bored sons (and sometimes daughters) of the nobility that came out to 'keep an eye on the estates' (and no doubt let some scandal or other settle down in the city while they were at it) paid well and even had some luxuries with them to trade.

It was easier to make a living in Terino itself, or even nearer to the borders, but also more dangerous. Competition could become deadly, as could the streets if it looked like you had a little money on you. Whilst sometimes she could squirrel something away for a future incarnation, her grasp of geography wasn't exactly excellent, and one patch of anonymous farmland or squalorous slum looked much like another.

Best to eat a poor breakfast here, even sometimes more or less pretending, and stay alive a few more years; to stay in the world with its stars and its trees and the wind in her hair.

\----

She was always rather careful and sparing with breakfast, unless her cover story really required her to be extravagant. Too much breakfast would make her feel heavy, listless, bound to the world, and rather like going to sleep again rather than getting on with the day. And it was a good habit to be in, for those times when she needed to go without food or make do with very little.

The Flembic did do a good breakfast, though. Cereals were plentiful due to the many, many miles of golden fields stretching across unimaginable spaces, fruit was reasonably common from the trees in the parks if nothing else, and of course the rich families liked to show off with plenty of meat and the poorer families often still kept some chickens in a loft somewhere which would provide the requisite eggs for morning consumption.

Over the border it was somewhat different, although she rarely got very far in any case, so the spreads of the rich and powerful there were unknown to her. It mostly seemed to vary in whether the person could afford fresh green things or not; there was often some kind of bread, almost always some kind of cheese, very often some olives (although often of distinctly ancient-looking provenance). Some of her lovers wanted to eat breakfast with her; others chased her out of their tents or quarters or rooms to eat rough bread and stale hummus with the other girls.

\----

And out here, in the New World? Often she scarcely knew what time of day it was! Breakfast somewhat lost its meaning when one could rely on time skipping only in units of hours or maybe a day or two in the worst case, and hence returned frequently just to see what was going on... but outside the festivals it still had some shreds of relevance. Those times she was engaged in enlightenment, she would eat whatever they were eating; espionage obviously required a cover, who would have their own preferences in breakfast foods.

When she was planning military engagements, people would tend to bring her things to eat. She liked eating, it gave her a second track of things to be doing which caused the subconscious to activate and maybe point out all those awkward corner-cases that the conscious mind didn't quite have time for. Like how she could move twenty suits of armour out of these units which hadn't finished training with them, and put them over here where they would go to good use...

The last season, though, with the endless round of battles at Jamestown and then the headlong flight across the continent to get on with what she was meant to be doing on the other side of it? She couldn't remember. She hadn't stopped to think. She hadn't really stopped to sleep much. She supposed she had probably eaten some food now and then, when it was being handed out, she tended to instinctively take it and eat it if it was there nowadays, long years of stretching the body's resources as far as they would go had taught that to her.

\----

This season didn't look good for eating either.


	46. Duty Without Love

I finish the letter, finally.

I do not talk about St Ivan.

I do not add the postscript which is burning in my mind, the one that says,

_we did not take part in a mission to help St Ivan. we went to St Ivan and we camped outside it and we watched it burn as we went to save Holy Archangel, because the ways of the Gods are mysterious_

I do not add the postscript which says,

_sometimes at night, and I have taken to sleeping at night again since the border between the worlds thickened, sometimes at night I still remember the smell of it, remember the quiet desperation as the businesses and shops closed one by one and we snuck out of the city right before the gates were sealed and they burnt it, they burnt them all_

I have spent too many paragraphs on platitudes and comfort to destroy my hard work by expressing my personal feelings.

\----

_She said, "I'll throw myself away  
They're just photos after all"_

There isn't much left of me, by the time I make it out.

When I remember it... any of it... any of that festival... all I can hear is the screaming.

Which is odd, because there wasn't much screaming.

But in my memories, everything is overlaid with a backing track of hopeless despair. Not the screaming to attract attention, not the screaming that hopes for aid, but the wordless cry of a wounded animal.

I see myself talking, following the pale glow of the Will; sitting, waiting for my target in eerie patience; stalking them until they are ready.

All this is silent in my mind, silent in the crisp, clear images, silent before the screams.

_I can't make you hang around  
I can't wash you off my skin_

"What is duty without love?"

I laugh, bitterly.

"Duty," I reply. I do not consider not replying. I do not consider that it is not my conversation, not my business.

He answers with some well-worn platitude, part of the secrets woven between them.

There is no-one woven to me, now; just the ends of severed threads, clinging to my limbs, ragged edges reaching out into the void.

"You dare to judge me?"

She is in my face, as if I could be intimidated, but there is no-one left here to intimidate.

"Yes," I reply, calmly. "You don't have time to do this. We don't have time for you to sulk."

I do not explain. I do not say, rebuild yourself. I do not say, at least you do not have to kill her, you do not have to fight her over and and over, you do not have to tear down piece by piece every beautiful thing that she pours her soul into, seeing the marks of her hands and feeling the ghost of her presence watching you reproachfully as you do so.

I do say, to him, "I spent three thousand years sulking. I think I know what it looks like."

I do not say, I have killed my ability to love, you have to kill your ability to love, it is the only thing that will save you.

_Outside the frame, is what we're leaving out  
You won't remember anyway_

I smile at him.

"You bought me a drink, in Sirens. You offered to introduce me to the Coyote."

"Are you still interested?"

I demur.

I play along. I have not brought my wings into the world with me, but I have still got my butterfly smile, even if it is night-invisible in this darkness.

_I can go with the flow (oh, oh, oh)  
But don't say it doesn't matter (with the flow)_

I lose track of him again.

I do a circuit of the field, hitting all the bars, checking all the angles.

For a moment I am caught up in the music of the band; of all the stupid things, I feel like dancing.

What part of me is that, that feels like dancing?

I watch my brother glow. Interesting. I would enquire further, but - I don't want to know.

I give them every opportunity. I tell him to fetch someone. I tell her to go and fetch her cavalry. I go and direct them around the affected area.

Nobody saves me.

_I can go with the flow  
Do you believe it in your head?_

I heft the pouch of money and I think about stealing some, but what would be the use?

Certainly I could use a few florin; I could buy cake or mana or weapons or soldiers; but it is not worth the price.

I doubt he would count them; I doubt he would care; I suspect he would toast my ingenuity and daring, even if he did find out.

The irony of an eidolon of the Merchant theiving a few coins does not escape me, even increases the temptation.

I do not like either drink. An inventive solution; I give one away. Problem solved. Weaver laughed.

(I try to remember their faces.)

_It's so safe to play along  
Little soldiers in a row_

"Either there is another one, or he's been lying to me. In any case; be there."

That's the problem all festival, it seems. No goddamn cavalry.

I smile and I listen and later in the darkness (and the light) I will tell everyone slightly different things.

Lying is too difficult. Too easy to be caught. Withholding the truth, that's a different matter.

I reassure him that he has nothing to fear from me. After all, I tell him, I can't talk to the Merchant.

You can.

I don't know if he took my hint. From what I hear later, I suspect he didn't.

_Falling in and out of love  
Something sweet to throw away_

I come back into the world and everything is broken and nothing is fixed.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Don't get attached. How many times do I need to learn this? Don't get attached.

I come back into the world to hear that another one of mine is dying of poison.

Afterwards, when I hear what the shrine does, I am glad that I was distracted by the little dracoscion.

I tell him that I might take him up on his offer, sitting in the sunlight on the haybales.

When she stops me at the gate to introduce herself, I tell her that she might outlive the rest of us.

_I want something good to die for  
To make it beautiful to live_

The sword bites into my shoulder.

"I'm sorry for having to do this," she says. "I just don't want anything leaking."

I fall to the ground and I do not say, now I am leaking! It is a pity that I only think of these things later.

Like I should have said, in the darkness, "But dear, it's impolite to recognise me in this mask."

I can see them just a few paces away, so close, so far; my voice calls out almost of its own accord, weakly.

"Fetch them, yes, that one," I tell him. They don't stop him. They have already gone.

"Do I need to block my ears?" he asks, as I struggle to look up and to think through the haze of pain.

She leans forwards. I give her the message. I tell her to go. She goes. It goes. She goes.

I squirm, uncomfortably, pinned to the ground by my own treacherous, broken shell, as he teases me.

Then the halberd comes down, and with it, sudden darkness.

_I want a new mistake, lose is more than hesitate  
Do you believe it in your head?_

I yell something incoherant into the darkness, probably fucking up years of patient work.

After being violently discorporated, I'm never at my best.

Fortunately I get that nagging feeling, something important to do, something straightforwards.

I fuck off into the bright open air with the brilliant blue sky.

It's a day like this that reminds me why, despite the twisting wrenching feeling where the alignment is off.

I bounce around a bit, can't find him; come across the aftermath.

My brother is on the floor, bleeding out. I taunt him half-heartedly. I can't really summon the willpower to be mean.

I press on, spot one of them, get directions; of course, right in the battle.

He seems to think it's vindication. I let him. It plays into my hands.

_I can go with the flow  
I can say it doesn't matter (with the flow)_

"I don't know whether I'll miss the feeling of my head exploding, or not."

I hadn't been shot in the head before.

As he speaks, I listen, half my mind elsewhere. Sorting through the memories that his tale reminds me of. Endless campaign tents in the desert. Scarred faces. Grasping claws.

"Terino is like that," I correct him. "I spent my time in the periphery. It's still Flambard. People forget that."

I watch him and I listen and I feel so sorry for him, with the desperate cheerfulness now just reminding me of the way that he was broken, just like we are all broken.

Then I head back into the sunlight, making it out before the festival is over, to attempt to do my gods-damned job.

_Do you believe it in your head?_

"Either he's lying, or he was lied to."

The sun is shining. The sky is blue. The grass is green.

None of them are dead.

If the second round has gone off, it didn't have a noticable effect.

They got the mana. They're planning the expedition.

I have my options. I have my escape hatches. A full hand of them, by now.

And he still likes me enough that I will probably be one of the last out, that the call is strong and clear for me even when it wanes for others.

I bask, translucently, beneath the sun, and I savour the last morsels of cake.

"It's strange having real emotions," she said.

But I think I am real.

And I think that our lives can be beautiful.


	47. Flesh and Blood

I want to talk to you, but I don't.

What would I have to say? You aren't one of mine, although you shelter some, and I have plenty of messages for them to take up my time. What would I say? I could encourage you, but as far as the little empathy I have left to me goes, I think it would be a mistake. I do not think, in your position, I would find any use in the encouragement of a chimera, of a fickle creature such as I, not even bound to your own god. So I watch you, moving through your camp like a force of nature, like the proud snow that clings to a mountain-top in the height of summer.

I watch you, but I don't talk to you. And I watch your people too, the best I can.

\---

It's amazing how being shot in the head really clears the mind.

The sudden chill of blood meeting air, the relief from the dull pressure of storing all that anger.

Maybe that's what she meant. Maybe our dear sweet friend of the many sexual assignations still never made a study of the human form, or the wemic, or the mokosh, or the avian; maybe she never stood and asked questions in dimly-lit rooms as doctors studied cadavers for the first time. Maybe she never built a form, however crudely, to mimic it; maybe she was made primarily of undifferentiated soul-stuff, never needing to hide herself right down to the bone and sinew twisting beneath the skin.

_she had cultivated an appropriate horror of pain, perhaps even exaggerated from what these mortals felt, as she could not heal; but he had not damaged anything vital and maybe he would not, he seemed like he wanted to keep her alive to stumble back to her husband and show him the price of his pride, and she did not want to leave, did not want to surrender to that good dark; she begged him incoherently, please sir, I just want to see my children grow up_

Twice in one day; she had expected that in the seasons, but she had built herself for it, all chitin and boastful, expansive purple blood. (Well, she had started the season in Flambard looking civilised, but she could not help getting over-excited, and truth be told a little bit competitive, what with the ghastly, deadly, beautiful forms arrayed against them.) She hadn't been ready for this, her crystal shell still hiding the pulsing organs she usually wore, the sharp clean shards of it pressing into the more conventional flesh and blood.

_"Of course it hurts," he says, "it's meant to." He's taken someone's wound and there's something strange and obscene about him being in pain, regardless of her own episode earlier, regardless of the fact it must have happened hundreds, thousands of times, because he has been active in the world for most of the time they had too, and being in the world means feeling pain, along with all the other beautiful and terrible things._

She listens to his tale, but she can't quite internalise the full horror of it; she is thinking of her own first death, splayed awkwardly on the warm, dusty ground of the savannah. She had told the one she found in the morning that you get used to it, but she's not quite sure that's true. In her case it seems to have been the reverse; she bore it well then, and only later learned to fear it. She idly wonders whether he did miss the start of the world, or whether he has simply cut off the part of himself that went before.

The concept of a final death is strange and alien, even one that leads to the eternal decline.

She has seen the shards of her brother, but she doesn't believe.

There are no endings, only changes.


	48. Transient

Floating; vague figures, mist and roiling cloud. Two voices.

"I want to die."

"We can do that..." Unsure.

"No, no. Not - you know - of my own accord. Not of my own desire. Not yet."

"Are you sure, then?"

"Surer than I've ever been. I guess I should cache the materials, really. Although that never worked for me in the past."

"Aren't you afraid?"

"Afraid of what? A little, yes. I am afraid of being trapped away from the world; I am afraid of the small town on the other side of the barrier. I am afraid of suddenly discovering that I am still living, somewhere, despite everything."

"But not of dying?"

"No. I want to die. I am tired, so tired. I am tired of killing. I am tired of pain. I am tired of destroying everything that I value, of giving until there is nothing left. I am tired of irreconcilable differences. I have given up my last possession. It is time. Well past time, to be honest."

The mist clears, a little, for a moment. There is a small, vulnerable-looking human figure, curled in a chair in the corner; appearances may be deceptive. There is a flamboyantly colourful angel draped across most of a sofa. Appearances may be deceptive. The mists close in once more.

"I can't talk to you in person, because you have too much else to do."

"Then why did you bring me here?"

"Because I thought you might understand. Because you know - in your mayfly way, _transient_ \- you know how..."

"No creature should be immortal. But you aren't a creature. Not in that way."

"No?"

"No." A pause. "I have to believe that. Or..."

"Not all of them do this, you know. I'm just... stubborn. I can't seem to get it to take - to reinvent myself properly. I can't let go of my memories. That's why. The others are okay, many of them; they limit themselves, or they forget, or they get remade. But..."

"So instead, you want to crawl away and die? Instead of getting it right? Instead of doing what the gods require of you?"

"I could have done it already. I could have not even been here. I could have gone home after the first year, ignored Veritas when he said I was needed here, that I was useful. I could have rejected my... my duty, my call. I could do it right now. I could get on a boat and flee like the marines are fleeing, back to the Old World, back to Terino..."

"Do you really think that would save you?"

"Yes! I think it will not be so bad there; I could live there, I could live another ten thousand years, another thousand lifetimes. But instead, I am here, and when I am done here... there might be something left of me, there might be something that exists with my soul symbol, but it will not be me."

Quietly, the angel stands, retrieves her weapon, and leaves the room, leaves the house, keeps walking until she cannot see the silhouette. 

Then she checks the stars, turns, and heads north, to where her duty calls her.


	49. Life and Fire

_I wish that I could be  
In the silence of the sea  
And disappear in them  
Never to be seen again_

The shadow of Freeport hangs over the gathering, flickering with the flames of as-yet-unset fires.

She looks from one to the other, with this strangely dispassionate elation covering her morbid assessment. _You'll die. You'll die. You'll probably survive. You've survived before. You're a turncoat, you'll find somewhere. You'll die._

It doesn't mean anything. All mortal souls pass on; all the people here will die; maybe even Benediction will be chased away. She wonders how she could ever have let herself care for an individual among these. Kasadyenka, slaughtered by the undead. Jason James, retired home across the waves. Aziraphel, shattered or sulking far beyond her reach. Hessonite, soon to be still and silent once more as the magic fades from the world.

Abassa. She looks at the strange, human figure beside her, drinking again. _Do I care about you? I scarcely remember._ There is no space for caring now, only for the last few drops of experience. Everything is the moment.

She is here to say goodbye to these people; before she kills them, or they kill her, over the seas.

_Leave this life  
Its unrelenting appetite  
For feeding off the weak  
Who never had their turn to speak_

She looks at a plant; at a stone; at the smoke curling from her porridge; at her own hands -

It is all about the quality of the light, she has decided. That's what she will miss the most, when she is gone, if she loses this final battle and is locked away from the world. She could reproduce the colours, the texture, the detail; but they are lost in the diffuse glow that can support shadows but no gleaming, no glistening, no shining...

So for once, she looks at things. She just looks at them. She watches the perspective and the lines and the reflections - perspective, that's another thing, perspective doesn't work properly, that house would never look like that with those angles - without an eye to copying, without an eye to remembering, without the desperation of storing it away for the future. Suddenly she realises how beautiful it is, all of it, all of this, unburdened with her grasping need.

Is this what it is like, she wonders, to be mortal? To understand that the span of your life is finite, and so to be freed from the burden of the future, the obsession of planning every move to protect the far reaches of endless experience, always having to play the long game? Does the knowledge that these things will end make them so much more precious?

No. Most of them still cling to the idea of an afterlife, a continuation; this clarity requires an ending.

_The sky will be my shroud  
A monument of cloud_

"I think we've run out of Teacher priests. We need someone to speak for the Teacher."

From the moment she overheard the comment, she could feel the irony approaching; the part of herself that she had excised would always be called back, in the end. She still knew all the right words, all the doctrines, the way Oriana would express these thoughts she never would express; still had one last message to deliver on that subject.

Especially ironic, given the names she had written on the piece of paper, not confident enough yet even in the face of death to write them in the clear and not in her old, old letter-substitution cipher. Weaver laughed. She said her piece, linking the stars along the whole sweep of history, gesturing with the attempt to convey the scope of it, knowing that those wrapped in their private grief were barely listening, that most would never be able to accept.

As he knelt and told them to think of their fallen, she looked up and out through the window to the cold skies. There was no corresponding direction to look in, but if there was, it would be there. _How sad that I search for you in Lady Sky, who you loved and who abandoned you._ The distant longing has a faded, nostalgic feeling; it cannot bite what she has become.

The laughter of the stargazer - the artist - the lover - the builder - echoes with the synchronicity of it all.

_If we could turn back  
You can paper over the crack  
But it will return now  
And your heart will burn black_

"This isn't the place to be discussing details."

He participates in the destruction of the piñata with enthusiasm, then begs those present not to tell his faction; the fear sits strangely on him, uncharacteristic, unnerving in the sincerity that it makes of a simple joke, even though he started his plea from a place of humour, of levity.

Everyone breaks.

She is reminded, uncomfortably, of bloodied chains. Of a blind and grasping figure, so close to his love, but so alone in the darkness. Of the echoes behind her words when she said no, the form does not heal; of the echoes behind Benediction when he added, sometimes for years.

"Of course it hurts," he said. "It's meant to."

_Give me your hand  
Cut the skin, let me in  
The molecules of us  
Bleeding into one again_

She crouched slightly, low and wary in stance, the wemic-like movements feeling strange in the crystalline form.

Could she have done this, in the light of what she knew later? The vulnerability contrasts sharply with the confident invitation and the sparkling, animal performance they danced together in the sunlight, spear against halberd; "in kissing distance of each other," he said.

Even without the blood and the pain and the dreamlike haze of constant returning, without the flesh parting gracefully around cold steel; perhaps even more so without them, even, there was something vital in the interplay of combat, the way the world narrowed and time slowed and the weapon scythed through the air. Out-waiting the enemy, and the connection of haft and back; the exultant, wild charge through the enemy lines, she can feel the hairline cracks forming under the assault.

It is strange how safe she feels here. She lends her halberd to a combatant, smiling at how they consider it part of her; in a way it is, she supposes, but it is also part of her in another way, the way any weapon can be, and that is much more relevant from her perspective.

On the long journey onwards, she wonders how it is to change yourself within the world, like those of this form can.

_The sky will be my shroud  
A cenotaph of cloud_

"I'm keeping it to give to the person I find most hilarious."

Because the ones who might need it were the ones who were the hardest to open up in the first place, not the ones who were content to spill their guts to anyone who might provide an ear. She thought about who she might give it to. Benedict Delano. Caterina Serveginion. Romance, or whatever she was calling herself nowadays. Ulrich, or whatever he was calling himself nowadays. Samahazai. Auriel.

Perhaps Carol, who might even use it. But surely the enthusiastic blonde alchemist would already have an open invitation, and know that...

She could give it to Abassa, but it would be a cruel act; it would be sending a message that she did not mean; and in part, it would be a gesture that was setting herself up for rejection once again, when the young woman (too dangerous to think of her like that, really) inevitably laughed in her face. She could do, really, with having given it to herself, a year or even a season or two ago; but she doubts it would have helped.

"I set your head on fire," he says. She doesn't say that he's too late.

_If we could turn back  
You can paper over the crack  
But it will return now  
And your heart will burn black_

He thanks her with an earnest face as she lays out every scrap of history she can rescue.

Half of a dancer. A burning manor house, the fire reflected in their eyes. Flat on their backs on a hilltop, patterns fresh and raw amongst their fur, the pain and the stars twisting into a higher state of consciousness; a visionary experience lifting them out of their aggrieved flesh, as far as they could go to transcendence and still come back down the mountain.

The Emperor; the Torchbearer; the Celebrant; the Stargazer; they'd missed one, hadn't they?

And think as she might about it, later, she drew a complete blank. All she could see was Mojay, or the endless young men and women (the latter sometimes disguised) heading off to war, or the rough folk, male and female, who had crewed the ships out of Terino; the knives and the cutlasses and the wild, blood-soaked dedications on the rain-soaked deck, blending into the justice of the kukri, further up and further in, with the blizzards and the killing wind screaming through the trees...

She would say, I will miss history, but that is the point, isn't it? That she won't miss anything, because she will be gone.

_Forgotten my way home  
Forgotten everything that I know  
Every day a false start  
And it burns my heart_

She headed back to the chapel to see how her candle was burning. 

The head was gone, the wings still perfectly intact.

An echo of the form without volition.

The other rooms called her, light and conversation,

and cake, and dancing, and reflections, and alchemy; life and fire...

_I know everything you said was right and I suppose  
Everything is here forever till it goes  
You gave it all away, kept nothing for yourself  
Just a picture on the shelf_

"Yours isn't the most trustworthy opinion."

It is strange.

It is strange the _absence_ of feeling that comes with those words.

It is strange that any time before, any place before, any other thread of her life would be deeply hurt by this, or thrown into panic, or considering a long hiatus. But not her. Not now.

It is strange that it doesn't matter any more; it doesn't matter if they trust her; it doesn't matter if she's valued; it doesn't matter if she lives or dies; it doesn't matter how the world makes it out of this; it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter; she is free, even in her chains, even in her obedience, even in her constraints and in potential future constraints;

It is strange that there is simply the shadow of the flames, and the shapes they make as they dance are irrelevant. It is strange they complained of the pain, and did not mention the joy.

It is strange how the distance makes reality more vivid than ever, 

even as she becomes more indistinct.

_Burning up  
Now I'm racing down a road I don't recognise  
I realise I've forgotten my way home  
Forgotten everything that I know  
Every day a false start  
And it burns my heart_

She wondered, as her strides consumed the dark miles between her and her charge, how the candle had finished burning.

He hadn't put it on a saucer, or a stand. She imagines it burning and collapsing in on itself until it sets off the tablecloth, how the altar falls inwards, how the fire licks up towards the names and hungrily consumes them, how the rooms swirl with the bright glitter of sparks as they are consumed by the flames.

She knows that it is much more likely that it has guttered out in a small, neat pile of its own wax, but it is nice to dream.


	50. Spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams

Spare me your judgements and spare me your dreams  
Cause recently mine have been tearing my seams  
I sit alone in this winter clarity which clouds my mind

\----

_Amelia._

She watches the odd shrine building go by on one side, and reaches the familiar cluster of trees, and pauses a while at the last point she knows is out of sight of the main buildings.

It hasn't really affected her like this before, hasn't become real until she approaches Wanamingo and remembers the times that she has been here before, and realises that all of the memories that stand out the clearest are the ones that have Amelia in them. Amelia laughing. Amelia singing. Amelia lunging lightning-quick with a dagger. Amelia falling asleep at the table. Amelia.

Cautiously, she approaches the house. No patrols this time, no greeters. She rests against a tree as she watches the party from Freiboden arrive, observes their actions, follows them.

_Echoes._

\----

Alone in the wind and the rain you left me  
It's getting dark darling, too dark to see  
And I'm on my knees, and your faith in shreds, it seems

\----

They have a weird, stilted conversation. Nothing is quite right. Nothing is quite natural. She knows, dimly, there must be a way through this; there must be a diplomatic stance to be taking, there must be a correct word to say, a way of showing just the right amount of sympathy, a way to make the contrition seem less fake. But she knows that the facet can tell that she is just going through the motions, because she really doesn't feel anything at all.

"What good would it do?" 

She has no answer.

\----

Corrupted by the simple sniff of riches blown  
I know you have felt much more love than you've shown  
And I'm on my knees and the water creeps to my chest

\----

Probably her most productive and useful conversation is with the last person she thought she would be able to talk to.

It is strange how the swirl of relationships changes, in this world which covers so little time and yet moves so fast. He apologises, insincerely. She smiles and makes self-deprecating gestures and graciously accepts; what could she do? She could press him for details, but then he would just have to concoct more elaborate webs of lies. She wonders distantly if he was even telling the truth in the first place, because he could equally be covering up his lack of righteousness, either way.

She does not ask who he is devoted to now. It would be unkind to make him lie about that, too. Especially if he was telling the truth in the first instance.

There is only kindness left, maybe, only the little kindnesses that make the patient feel better about dying. She doesn't think it's convinced, but she doesn't want to make her own personal heresy that obvious to it. Even though it would help, if it knew, if it was correct after all - or even if it wasn't, that's the thing about the truth, isn't it? She says she has no problem with lying if it brings greater order, but they talk and talk in circles and people are no doubt already killing each other, far away on the coast.

She puts down the first gift she picks up, rattles the presents, finally finds something acceptable to take - something without obligation. She tries not to feel hurt that nobody has taken her own meagre contribution.

They speak of plans, of contingencies; they look at each other and maybe they both know what they mean, and maybe they are talking past each other. Gods knew, she was not much of a mind-reader, these days. She paused restlessly by conversations, watching their inhabitants, feeling the old familiar call; but she couldn't, she couldn't, she asked herself again and again - do I care? - and the answer was always no.

She knew that he would do it, if it came to that; and maybe it would save him. Does it affect the Fallen? We just don't know. So much we just don't know.

It is one of life's little jokes at her expense, how the pamphlet she wants to read is always busy; how the little leather-bound book captivates her, how darkly ironic it is given the author and her likely fate. The book makes her want to think that she might have misjudged her, but no; she just has to accept, as she tells them, that her enemies (how can she think of her as a enemy - but that is what it feels like, here, now) are smarter and better and more competent than her.

She wants to tell him that he's wrong, that he should not give up so easily, but then again she doesn't want to speak to him at all.

\----

But plant your hope with good seeds  
Don't cover yourself with thistle and weeds  
Rain down, rain down on me

\----

_she who is one and five and a thousand_

He's telling them that he prays to all the gods, out on the ocean with the waves bearing down on him, and she can feel the patient explanations bubbling up inside her. _There are gods you wouldn't want the attention of, at that moment,_ she doesn't say. She repeats his propaganda for the echo chamber, knowing her audience; knowing his spies are there, as well as the righteous.

"A student of history," she says quietly, "might ask..."

She watches them and she watches them and she thinks of intervening, but it is the way that it always is - the things that she does care about, at least a little, are the things she cannot affect. Suddenly she takes up her halberd and she leaves the room and she heads out into the darkness, the blissful darkness, where she can be alone amongst the trees. The birds and the beasts and the boughs. 

On the way to the treeline, she watches the place she should be, the meeting she should be in, overhearing or interrupting or doing _something._

She ignores it, and continues. This, at least, is a freedom that she has. Regardless of her words earlier, about perhaps missing the season, she knows the shadows hold no fear for her. The night cannot harm her, the people here cannot cause her anything more than temporary inconvenience. She is even sure about that in hindsight; even those she used to fear have no power over her. She has ensured that much, at least.

 _What happens,_ she asks the empty sky, the dim grey roof over the world, _if you get everything you ever wanted, and you hate it, you hate it so much?_

The bark of the tree that she leans on is so real, so real under her hand; the ground wavers and shifts in the meagre light afforded by the house not so far away, how the real is so thin in the dark, as her eyes adjust gradually. It feels like she could spend eternity, just holding one tree, just feeling the one patch of bark with all its tiny crevices and crenellations. It seems so unfair that she does not have the time to do so.

She goes through the motions of crying, but this body cannot produce tears. She kicks the tree, she goes to attack it, but she cannot bring herself to do so. The integrity of her form is too valuable.

 _You could be doing this,_ she thinks, _you could be fighting, you could be out there killing people; you could be losing yourself in the motion and the poetry of it, you could be fighting, you should be fighting._

But she can't help but admit to herself; she wants a fight, but she doesn't want to lose a fight. If she was there, she thinks, it would be different; in the full assurance of doing the right thing, she would return again and again. Here, she's not so sure. She wants a fight, but she doesn't want to lose a fight; and she doesn't want the pity of Benediction or Avalanche, who might agree to such a thing.

\----

Look over your hills and be still  
The sky above us shoots to kill  
Rain down, rain down on me

\----

She walks on through the forest, trying to calm herself with the act of walking, as has helped so often in the past.

The leaf litter and the loose branches catch at her legs; distant lights from the outbuildings glimmer in her eyes; her progress is too loud to provide the solace she is after.

She stands still, in the clearing, and feels the ground beneath her feet. The solidity; the history; the passage of life that has led to this.

There is a war within herself, and in a way almost alien to her now, it is truly within herself; there is no other agency, no other label that she can give any of the conflicting factions, no way of binding them to a form and distancing them from herself. 

If she could, she would say that Leticia wanted her to go back inside and sing; Apharanta wanted to overhear the meeting; Numenon wanted her to go directly to the front and stop this dithering just because she might have to kill a few of her own friends (or, more likely, be killed by them).

But there is no Leticia, there is no Numenon, there is no Apharanta. There is just Amaranth, standing beneath a starless sky, understanding that she has always been a coward.

She returns to the house, she takes a seat, and she sings.

\----

I begged you to hear me, there's more than flesh and bones  
Let the dead bury the dead, they will come out in droves  
Take the spade from my hands and fill in the holes you have made

\----

She loses herself in the music for a time, leans close to the songbook and sings the words that seem so much more hopeful now; but the music ends, and the warm young alchemist chooses someone else, and she heads out into the night once more.


	51. Uncomplicated

At least someone is tending the wound.

It's an absurd thing to think. The real wound, if it's there, goes much deeper. The little Malathian surgeon with the replacement leg isn't going to be able to reach that one; or maybe he could, if he knew about it, but why would he? It's not even certain that he would consider it to be a wound at all. Too many Malathians are like that.

You don't notice the jaws, kitten, until they are around your own head; and don't tell me that you know what you're doing.

If you knew what you were doing, Mal, you'd have done it more efficiently.

\----

They're all coming out of the woodwork today.

There's Stepan, sitting there in his tabard, utterly oblivious to the events of the last couple of seasons. There's Ace, who knows all too well; and knows me all too well, too, I fear. And now there's Callien, dragging me back from the haze of warm bodies and warm voices into the cold light of duty once more.

I don't mind; I quite like it here; it's almost like coming home.

I don't know where you're coming from, so I start off vague, hoping to hear your story; hoping that you will give me some clue, beyond the massively obvious; but I start with that anyway, because if there is one thing I have learned in the New World, it is that the massively obvious often isn't, to the other party.

I'm almost ready to get into specifics, when you disappear from view.

Now you've stolen the party and the girl; I don't know what it is, but maybe it's my old Flembic sensibilities acting up, or maybe it's the way that I don't want to embarrass myself in front of Avalanche. But now it's all gone quiet, and the threesome on the floor is not the one that flickered temptingly through my mind when you first sat down next to me.

I engage in a little more desultory conversation, but there's nothing left here.

\----

I don't want to call you uncomplicated, Carol, because I'm sure you're not; I'm sure you're just as complicated as everyone else. 

But that's the air you have about you: uncomplicated.

I think that is why they all trust you. I think that is why you get away with it. I think that is how you have chosen to survive, and it seems to be working well for you, if a little unusual for one of the Weaver's. At least, I assume you're one of the Weaver's. I only have this recollection of seeing you at meetings that imply that. I know you have history, and in some way you would like to share it, and in some way you would like to keep it secret...

But your ready smile says: the present is what matters.

I don't think you want anyone to worry about you, so I don't. You aren't mine anyway - not my problem... nor my possession.

\----

I will be upset when Mojay dies.

I don't know what to say to you. I know where you will stand and I know you will fight, like a mother over her cubs. I want to give you another path, but I know you won't walk it, and I know you shouldn't walk it; I am not Mardocai, I have no illusions that this assignment is more than desperate and temporary, whether the world is still there to come back to or not. You will fight and you will not die at home in your bed as you should, surrounded by your children. You will probably not have time for children.

Even if you win, you will not be at rest until you have won the War on Heaven; and then... there is no then for me, there is no then that I can conceive of. That's rather the point, is it not?

Even so - I will be upset when you die. Assuming I still have enough to be upset with.

\----

It seems that every time I come here, there's someone.

There's some group of natives - it's normally natives - that make my grip tighten on my halberd, that cause me to check the lines of attack, the lines of retreat, the directions in which I might need to push those who are valuable to me as I give them the couple of moments my form will hold out for them to get a head start.

I've killed a lot more myrmidons than those of your kind, but the only myrmidon here is one that I would like to be able to call a friend, even if I'm quite sure it has higher loyalties. But there were enough scaled forms out there in the carnage of Jamestown that I am wary of you now. I know there are distinctions; I know that there are tribes and nations among you; but I feel that you, personally, are on the wrong side of that line, even so.

Strange, that I would still feel the old loyalty, to some extent; for all I've been talking of the history of her enemies, for all that I have excised the one that truly belonged to her, for all that I have strongest behind my eyes the Stargazers and their scrubland hill, I still can't help feeling an investment in the fate of Flambard.

So I watch Mowak, and I watch her, and I watch the doors.

\----

Alannah. 

Maybe she'll ground him.

Maybe she'll keep him tied to the past; lashed to the mast while the sirens sing. It's not something I would wish on the young and carefree spirit who poses for the family picture, but it is just those things that make it possible; either none of her own baggage or the sense not to show it, the better to remind him what is natural and free and untainted, to remind him that some things are worth saving.

Maybe I'm projecting. Maybe he is as uncomplicated as he projects, too; but the blood on his hands mitigates against that, the careless way that he plays with the pistol as the doubt creeps into her innocent eyes.

Maybe she'll ground him. Maybe she'll save him.

Or maybe he'll just take her with him, when he goes.


	52. a stolen repast in a hidden shelter

_Fatal velocity, comes on with a rush,  
overpowering, gives the final push_

It was a long time in the darkness, that last walk out of Wanamingo; I had taken to sleeping nights, but that night I walked, feeling every breath of wind, hearing the night calls of the birds and the insects.

The letter had been waiting for me, but I did not open it until I left the small gathering. It thanked me for my offer, and included directions to the place I was to stand vigil.

The song of the sea called to me; I stayed resolutely inland, wanting to hear no news from the shore, to think about no blood-soaked decks, sailors drawing lots as the storm battered the remains of the ruined sails.

\----

_What never moves, is never still, who has the final word  
It holds the world, in a single pill, all life rendered absurd_

Jamestown was very different this season, without the great armies that battled over the land, without the necromantic taint that I watched her patiently cleanse whilst I taught him what little I knew of the secrets of the Gods.

In a nondescript patch of meadow, carefully bordered on all sides by the hedges running alongside the endless fields, I sat, and I waited.

The heartbreaking richness of the world enveloped me. The crumbling brown soil, restored from its former barrenness; the achingly bright green of each blade of grass; the iridescence of small scuttling things; the ever-changing clouds scattered across the endless blue sky.

\----

_Kill sweet desire, faith may numb the trial, but can you run all your life  
Kill sweet desire, truth will make a liar, you can run but not hide_

I had no intention of returning at any point this season, so there were occasional breaks in my vigil; forays for food, water, a few words of speech with the grateful locals who were glad to have an angel watching over them.

The soft, rough texture of country bread; the gentle resistance and salty tang of a good cheese; the slightly acidic wash of something like a fresh apple.

Out in the fields, there is a deeply rooted timelessness; the crops may have been different, but the field-workers were all human, and if you elided certain details, I might as well have been back in the periphery, eating a stolen repast in a hidden shelter...

\----

_So run for your life_

The letter came as a surprise, although a welcome one; I had thought no-one had heeded the warning or planned for the necessary mission, but it appeared that forces I had assumed too small to do so had come through, after all.

It looked like I was going to get to fight, after all, and somewhere that I felt just as confident about returning to as I would about the place I was avoiding.

There was something surreal about penning the reply to the letter in the small, calm meadow; all season, of course, I had been half-expecting to hear the sound of marching, or the soft wings of acid-spitting lizards, but it had still seemed impossibly remote from this pastoral scene.

\----

_A false sincerity, a liar and a thief, my pulse and memory, a comfort within grief_

The mask falls into place seamlessly as the force assembles itself. I stand with my halberd and let it all wash over me; Veritas, Auriel, the battered but truimphant defenders of Freeport, the giant snake monsters.

The heaviness of the air, the thickness of every breath, the thin, anemic reeds stubbornly reaching from the greying soil; this is reality, as much as the plantations of New Terino.

The writer of the letter does not join us, but I look into the many eyes of a giant rainbow spider monster, and for the first time I think this place could feel like home; this place, these people, they could be worth defending.

\----

_What never moves, is never still, who has the final word  
It holds the world, in a single pill, all life rendered absurd_

All is flow and the moment again; giant snake monsters writhe around swarming myrmidon drones, the steady rain of chitin slippery underfoot and crashing down from forwards and above, interspersed with sudden showers of blank grey warriors pouring from the maggot-tunnels through the undead hive.

It is still so hard, every time, to grasp that thread of hatred, that last desperate scream - destroy the undead - before they destroy us...

Every time I descend on that thread, it tears at me, much more viciously than the mere physical pain of being torn to shreds by the myrmidon claws. It tears at the memories of their faces, alone in the darkness - our hopeless, forsaken younger cousins.

\----

_Kill sweet desire, faith may numb the trial, but can you run all your life  
Kill sweet desire, truth will make a liar, you can run but not hide_

I am efficient; I am organised; I am Apharanta; I do not care; I do not exist beyond the moment. I ensure the ritual site and the outer fortifications are adequately secured, and then I am gone, sweeping across the continent in a trail of rainbow wings.

I am in Malathia, briefly, watching the survivors mourn; I am away from the coast, and it is very quiet here.

Then I am in Freeport, and I half expect someone to challenge me, but I have fought alongside their champions and I offer them no threat; I am watching them clear the gristly debris off the cliffside, and wondering whether it was the one I suspect of leaving that message.

\----

_So given into this sensation (feel I've run too far)  
Cannot see beyond emotion (see what the options are)  
With no faith to trust or notion, I fear I'm losing all control..._

Do I really want to die?

Not enough, it seems, or I would have done it already.

Amaranth cannot bring herself to decide her own fate;

I have always been a coward.


	53. Laughing Eyes

This is the worst battle amble I have ever had the displeasure of being in.

Stained-glass wings in the dying light. The girl in the white dress glows so brightly for a moment; there are after-images as they pick themselves up all around her.

Never quite close enough, never quite there, never quite engaging...

It does not hurt when I hear the news. It does not hurt. I can barely summon her from memory: her blonde hair, her laughing eyes with that shadow deep behind them.

Lost beneath the calling that drives me, nothing rages against the monster I have become.

\----

_It's colder than before  
The seasons took all they had come for  
Now winter dances here  
It seems so fitting don't you think?  
To dress the ground in white  
And grey_

Darkness. Stillness. No... that came later.

Focus. Open pastel wings onto bright evening; returned to life, a minor blessing every time it happens. Like a gift he walks out of the evening, radiant amongst the dark and shadowed places. Fall in alongside, the brightest of shadows, animated by the power of the command, resplendent.

Barely a candle, still, beside them; hurry up and wait.

Like his personal mark of authority, sweep through the gathering dusk, validation... though are you his, or is he yours? The clouds are grey, the world turns, the purpose is being served; the storm gathers, the word spreads like lightning, the thunder assembles; your glowing colours, her crimson hair, the fire cannot be contained, it has to roar...

The war boils over, out into the dying light.

\----

_It's so quiet I can hear  
My thoughts touching every second  
That I spent waiting for you  
Circumstances afford me  
No second chance to tell you  
How much I've missed you_

He just laughs, and laughs, and disappears.

Their faces are known to you and their faces are known to your god. Dance the line between truth and lies; keep the words coming, keep the reports flowing, keep them all guessing as much as you have to guess yourself, as much as you have to second-guess yourself.

"You'll like this; here's an opportunity to shatter the last remnants of my hope in some of the few people left to me."

All of the illusions are falling like dominos, falling like the banner of the Merchant in the place between the worlds, falling like she never even really had the chance to, never really had the choice. "That's a nice luxury you have there." There are flames dancing behind her eyes.

I do not care. I am Apharanta. I do not care.

\----

_My beloved do you know  
When the warm wind comes again  
Another year will start to pass  
And please don't ask me why I'm here  
Something deeper brought me  
Than a need to remember_

It is hard to remember how much I once wanted this.

It is hard to remember how I laid my plans, how I held a picture of the world in my mind. It is hard to remember how it felt to love the beauty of the world, out here in the darkness, under the blank and starless sky.

But I remember what I can do; I match his pace in the darkness and I try to draw him back into the light. He asks why we do this, why we do this to ourselves, why we constantly throw ourselves against the impossible; he asks what he can do now, and I answer, all there is to do - you pick them up, you pick them up and you see what you have left and you carry on, one foot in front of another, one moment after another.

I do not know why we do this. I do not know why I do this. I thought it was fear which drove me though the darkness, I thought it was pride, I thought it was self-preservation; but I do not think it is any of these things, I do not think they make sense of my actions.

It is hard to remember how much I once wanted this.

\----

_We were once young and blessed with wings  
No heights could keeps us from their reach  
No sacred place we did not soar_

She turns to them as they point her out.

She tries to talk her way out of it. She can usually talk her way out of it. She has seen what they did to the others.

She thinks she has got away with it, and turns to walk away, when they strike.

She has spent all season being torn apart repeatedly by myrmidons. It is no more than a minor inconvenience.

(She is surprised by the look on his face when she suggests that she would let them take her down, if they found her, to see what it would do.)

\----

_Still greater things burned within us  
I don't regret the choices that I've made  
I know you feel the same_

I am still and silent in the feeble candlelight.

I am still and silent and I am listening, because that is what I do, I listen and I watch; I used to be good at this, I used to be invisible, but now I am purple and gold and winged and armed, and there is no way that they cannot see me, even given how unobservant mortals are.

I am still and silent because I want to see if any of them call me on it, any of the others. If they demand that I leave, then I will go; I do not need to spend any of his political capital.

But I do need to know if he was simply making excuses.

I am still and silent and even when he deliberately acknowledges my presence, they do not object. I am still and silent and I wish I knew, I wish I understood, I wish I remembered how I used to play this game, but I think that the cards are stacked against me and all I can do is put one foot in front of the other and listen, and learn, and take each moment as it comes.

But of all of them - of all of them - I did not expect _you_ to betray me...

\----

_My beloved do you know  
How many times I stared at clouds  
Thinking that I saw you there  
These are feelings that do not pass so easily  
I can't forget what we claimed as ours_

He stands before the court and he weeps openly as he begs to be of any use, any use they can put him to.

I can see, behind my eyes, the letter, the conversation that we had... and the church, and the ladder, and the look on his face.

I did not stand beside him then; I did not argue his case; I did not step forwards and risk everything I had built to tell his side of the story, to save him, perhaps, as I have always had more power and more competence than I have credited myself with.

I did not stand beside him then and I do not stand beside you now. I stand paralysed, unable to turn away, unable to offer a hand.

He rants and he whispers and I still do not speak to him; and I never find out what it was he wanted to tell me.

\----

_Only trust and time remains  
I am so proud of what we were  
No pain remains, no feeling  
Eternity awaits_

"A problem shared is a problem doubled, and all that."

I don't know why I do it to him. It is only an echo of myself, an echo of the part of me that has almost drowned beneath the fire and the tide, beneath the driving force that pushes me into the world again and again. It takes so much control, when I see her, not to obey; to wait and to talk to another like I had planned, and only then to its destination.

It is only an echo, and it sounds hollow as I go through the motions.

It changes nothing, it achieves nothing.

Then I find her and I do what I should have done in the first place, and I feel the last of me sloughing off with it, the last of the angel that thought she was a person.

\----

_Grant me wings that I might fly  
My restless soul is longing  
No pain remains, no feeling  
Eternity awaits_

There are no words.

What should I say? That I was selfish? That I was wrong? That I did not even apologise? What should I say? That I had made my preparations for this moment, and how inevitably they started sliding into place? That I was still driven by fear, and not by love, never by love?

Should I tell you of the grass and the clover, the wavering texture of it, the light from every direction washing out the colours as surely as the clouded sky?

What should I say? That I was weak? That I was jealous? That I have always been a coward? That I balked at their suggestions, that I wailed to the empty, ceaseless storm that I was sorry, that I was so sorry for wasting the time of those who are better than me, those who bear the gifts of the gods?

There are no words.

\----

_My beloved do you know  
When the warm wind comes again  
Another year will start to pass_

How could they?

How dare they?

Why should they come and dig me out of the hole that I had dug for myself, why should they be grateful, why should they sit in the corner of the room in the house in Wanamingo and beg me to stay in this place, to lose myself, to become the angel that this new world needed, to become Apharanta?

Why are the rewards of virtue always such punishment?

How can I trust my own judgement?

How do all these giants stand on their feet of clay, and tell the mortals to pray for them?

"Pray for me," I say, under my breath, with more emotion than I have displayed on the world all this festival, as he walks away.

\----

_And please don't ask me why I'm here  
Something deeper brought me  
Than a need to remember_

"Which god are you serving?"

The white lion gazes down from the wall, the blue and golden sun, the pamphlets on the shrine.

This is not the tavern.

She can't believe it for a moment, reads the pamphlet, touches the candlesticks, tries to convince herself that it is real; that she has not simply moved into a place of her own design, retreated into her own mind (like he did like they did like she could have five thousand years before) and brought up the drawbridge behind her.

The light is coming from everywhere because the clouds are blocking out the sun.

Three people have called her over before she even leaves the camp.

She does the thing that they have not asked her to do; because she can, because the others can hear it still, because it needs doing.

Because she knows that her family respect her, and she has finally, finally come home.

\----

_My beloved do you know  
How many times I stared at clouds  
Thinking that I saw you there_

"She's an architect, and he is, and he is... why don't we have a builder's meeting?"

She doesn't even think of staying to listen; she is already sweeping away on her next task, trying to put together the next piece of the puzzle.

She is possibly the worst choice for tailing a potential escapee, but no-one else is doing it, so she does it anyway.

It all looks like it is falling apart (and why did I not recognise him, except I did recognise him, I could have had him last festival if I had not been so indecisive) but then at the last moment it all comes together.

She does not pause to think, when the next opportunity presents itself; she finds herself a paladin and she runs, and she stands there through the piercing screams, and she watches and she listens and she arranges and she warns.

She finds a lead where the trail had run entirely dry; she does not push this one, but she passes it on to one who can.

She heads out into the darkness and she listens to them talking and she repeats in her mind - _kill the ones you love._

\----

_These are feelings that do not pass so easily  
I can't forget what we claimed as ours_

He pushes the bottle into her hands and promises to return.

She drifts aimlessly through the cloud of smoke, suddenly bereft of direction.

A snake-girl approaches her. "That's a better approach." She would usually explain, but today she simply says, "Why?"

Softly glowing, the girl comes up silently beside her, as she gazes into the fire. She confirms what her brother said, what her brother confirmed, and it burrows under her skin like sand under wemic-claws.

She returns to the safety and the light for a moment, hands the bottle over. "So I should tell him that he's lost his bottle?"

It rings hollow. She needs to find him. She finds him, surrounded by others.

Nothing else matters. In front of them, she begs for his forgiveness.

\----

_Moments lost though time remains  
I am so proud of what we were  
No pain remains, no feeling  
Eternity awaits_

Kill the ones you love.

She watches him as he says, "it might sound awful to you, as an angel."

She watches him and she remembers the walk in the dark, she remembers the things that they said there.

She stands against the barricade and she airily swaps lists of targets.

Kill the ones you love.

She watches her as she says, "I don't know what side you are on."

She watches her and she listens and she doesn't let her just walk away; a bridge she had thought destroyed, she will not let it burn just yet.

How can you tell that she is lying? As he would say: her lips are moving.

Kill the ones you love.

She cheerfully relieves him of his entire mana supply, and they begin to cast the ritual.

\----

_Grant me wings that I might fly  
My restless soul is longing  
No pain remains, no feeling  
Eternity awaits_

She returns to the place between the worlds, and...

And she finds it there, waiting for her.

Dancing back into glorious sunlight, sailing through the resistance into the real, soaring up to the palisade.

"Can we try that again, without the epic fuckup in the middle?"

She returns to the place between the worlds, and...

And she finds it there, waiting for her.

_Celebrate success that has been hard-won. Disdain success that has not been gained by honest toil._

Until that moment, she had not understood.

There is work to be done; there is work still to be done, there is always work; but here is the purest joy, the joy she had never known.

_The right to achievement cannot be taken from another._


	54. "You do realise that every time you do this it hurts?"

She is lying, on her back, only a few short years after the dawn of the world.

She leads the frightened villagers over the brow of the hill and straight down on to the sharpened staves of their enemies.

She sits in the house as the flames flicker up around her, holding the baby so that it does not cry, gently suffocating the life from it before she silently burns.

She throws herself into the battle once more, feeling chitin crack beneath her halberd, then the claws biting into soft flesh.

She sprawls awkwardly, wings in ribbons, shards of carapace grating inside.

She recalls the fascinated horror with which she watched him being executed while carrying on a perfectly amenable conversation, and then she turns to Johanna and carries on a perfectly amenable conversation, the bright dance of the pain running through her every time she breathes in to speak another few words.

She recalls the troubled face that she had told, "You get used to it."

But you don't so much get used to it.

You simply learn to do the impossible; to ignore it, to ride it out, to fear it less; to convince yourself that the victory is sufficient payment for the agony.

Then you fade from the world, to the place where pain is just a memory.

If only there were not so much of one in the other...


	55. Unfair

_He stares out the window, blank as a canvas  
Made up in the sunlight and swirling smoke and ash  
He waits for a breath now,  
Taking his time, he sees an eternity in a blink of an eye_

"What is there left for me to do?"

Once she wanted to tear them all apart; to take her vengeance for the years she had spent in the wilderness, for the unceasing centuries of fear and uncertainty and doubt.

(there is a reason I have not spoken to my brethren, unless I had to, for the last five thousand years)

Once she wanted to tear them all apart; but now she wants nothing else but to pick them up and put them back together, to put them back on the pedastal and close the door on their fears and uncertainties and doubts; to stand between them and the world. To not have to see them learning, once again, what she had to learn so long ago... that sometimes there is nothing you can do, sometimes it is nothing you have done, but that does not absolve you of your duty, that does not mean it is not your fault, that does not mean you do not have to go and fix it.

That does not mean that you do not have to go out there and pick up the shards of yourself and the fragments of those that you loved.

(there is a flash of the one who lies beneath his eyes, who lives only in the moment of judgement, alive with the total conviction of his righteousness)

You cannot hurt me now; I am already wounded, I am already dead, I have already killed the ones I loved; but I still hold to hope that I can talk you down, that at least I can mend your wings.

Spread them and fly for me; embrace the certainties that I never could, be the weapon that lives within you...

_And for him this life is made of time and choices  
An endless blend of vistas painted bright with memories  
The here and now will bow to him to only serve one purpose  
To keep your peace_

"I do not strike the blessed of the Gods. I will not raise my sword against them."

Once she wanted, especially, to tear him apart; to see him broken, to see him humbled, to see him descend to the depths that the others suffered.

(everything that I cannot do, everything that I cannot have, do you realise how deeply it cuts, how much I have wanted that which you find an inconvenience?)

Once she wanted, especially, to tear him apart; but she cannot do it, she cannot tear herself apart in front of him, cannot bring the right words or the venom she had thought would lie behind them. It is obvious, here, now, as he looks at his sword and contemplates what he has become, that he has already been broken, too; that not one of them is whole, that not one of them has the strength.

He asks her what she will do, afterwards; she laughs at him, a desperate sound against the grey daylight.

( _The big picture is made up of lots of little pictures,_ if only I could believe such a thing, if only I could see that there was a picture at all; but there is no picture, only ocean, only time driven by the tide; the next five minutes, one foot in front of the other, and we will not be tomorrow what we thought we were yesterday)

How can I answer you? I do not know who I will be. I do not know what I will be. I do not know if I will be. I have made, and discarded, so many layers of plans, so many faces, so many names.

"I will look after my people, if there are any of them left; and I think I will do a lot of walking."

_He takes on the world all in a stride, and your wounds will be his scars  
So won't you remember when the night comes  
He will need your open arms  
For to be invincible, he needs your love_

"How can you even pretend to understand?"

It is horribly and monstrously unfair.

She knows this one. She has known him through almost as many transformations as she has inflicted upon herself. She knows that of all of them, he has valued her.

Never has she wanted to tear this one apart.

Even more than those she is trying not to remember, those she is never likely to see again, she does not think he is capable of succumbing to the temptations of pride.

It is horribly and monstrously unfair.

"Don't you presume to talk to me, you and what you are!"

It is horribly and monstrously unfair.

He leaves.

_He stands in the doorway, quiet like yesterday  
With forgotten thoughts become a mystery and nightmares locked away  
He looks like a gunman, but his view is much too wide  
For such a solution, so he fights without a six gun on his side_

"Amaranth."

The pictures crawl across the surface which she draws them on, starting off with the representational, descending gently into the past, pushing gradually at the boundaries of the world that never was, many worlds that never were, and an endless parade of faces...

"Tell him that he will have to find a new angel."

The words tear themselves out of her, rough with the shards of her grief, unable to even think of the alternative.

If she is not the one that they need; then she is not the one that they need.

She should have known better than to hope, better than to assume, better than to throw herself into it until there was nothing left. She has overextended; she had entertained, for a moment, a higher opinion of herself than was justified; she had let herself want, she had let herself work, she had let herself be pleased with her progress, she had let herself be proud of an achievement which she had obtained only through the desertion of others, not through any virtue of her own.

If she is not the one that they need, then she is not the one that they need.

There is no virtue in an angel; it was time to let go, time to begin again, time to tear down the stained glass windows.

"Amaranth... you can hear them, still?"

I hear the songs I have always heard; pared down, sliced to the bone, a weak and crippled harmony. A tired call, an exhausted and desperate hope, a final echo; a hunger and a hunger and a jealousy, woven loosely around each other, huddling together for the last vestiges of warmth.

_And all the while his stars and moon shine brightly  
Outside the desert wails a curse of rage and jealousy_

"How do you know?"

This is not the worst day of my life. This is not the worst; but only by virtue of it having such exquisite competition. I do not understand myself. I do not understand what this is. I had plans for this contingency. I am executing those plans. They are going quite well, all considered.

So why does it _hurt_ so much?

They tease out my story. She sits there and looks at me and I know how unfair I am being, I know how unfair I have become, just like all of those before me that I hated. To think that after all this, after all this time, after all that time and tide has inflicted upon me, the deepest wound is that I had allowed myself to hope; that I had allowed myself to believe, that I had allowed myself to think of myself as something other than dirt, that I had allowed myself to think that I could change, that I could grow, that I could _become_...

Even in dirt, things can grow; we are less than that, less than that, less than nothing.

After all I have done, it is strange and unwelcome how viscerally I still reject his offer, how the abject terror of _knowing_ washes through me. I do not want to confirm my own opinion of myself, even if it might confirm their opinion of me instead, even if it is the obvious way forwards to the things which I claim that I want, the things which I claim that I thought for a moment that I deserved. The conviction flashes in his eyes - "I would do that for you."

I thought I had given away my last possession - but no, there is one more thing left to lose.

I lose my composure.

_And yet tomorrow comes along and shapes to serve his purpose  
To keep your peace_

There is only so much pain. It is not infinite. Nothing is infinite. There is only so much pain.

There is only a finite capacity within me for suffering, and once I have broken clean in two, once I have expressed it like I have never let myself in front of those who could remember it forever, it begins to fade.

There is only so much pain, and there is ever so much tomorrow, and I can still hear them, however thinly and however far away.

There is only a finite capacity in me for suffering, and he takes me back into the world, to walk off what is left of it.

There is only so much pain, and there is still so much work to be done.

_He takes on the world all in a stride, and your wounds will be his scars  
So won't you remember when the night comes  
He will need your open arms  
For to be invincible, he needs your love_

"Being forced to be strict and narrow has ruined me in most other ways."

She steps forwards and puts a hand on his arm.

"What if one day I've hardened myself so much that I lose sight of what's important?"

There are no words, but sometimes the few that she has seem to be enough.


	56. Faster, Better, More On Fire

Oh, what a surprise.

Your sillhouette, dear, is bloody obvious; almost as obvious as Backchat's face, his gait and demeanour. I don't have a name for you, but I don't need to; you have emblazoned an identity of your own across your forehead, Eat Me, as clear as the one it is hiding.

I am ready to back up anyone who takes you down, because - you wouldn't understand. Your masters only pay you in money. You can live without money. You can breathe without money. You can watch the sunset and place your hands upon the trees without a pfeck to your name.

And when you're done with all that, you get to die, and go beyond everything we know, or simply cease to be.

Us? We're not so lucky.

\----

I saw Svetlana when they took the others away.

You don't know me, and I don't know you, but I know you. I find it strange that he's with you, and I know your type; because when there's nothing you can make, you can always make love; because in so many times and so many places, I have worked for so many madams.

At least, I hope that you do not know me, because the part of me that still makes plans has seen you, and I think you might be one that I would go to, if I had to.

You don't know me, and I don't know you, but I know you still love them; that you cannot quite be apart from them, even though you are apart from them, even though you must save, first, your own flawless skin. I think you would make a good employer, if it came to that.

Even though I hunt them - I think you would understand.

\----

Why do you have to find me when I am so preoccupied, Callien?

I stand and I watch the fight and I pass the time and I am no use whatsoever, because here you are, reminding me that most of you work on an entirely different scale. Everything is connected; I could use you, but only if I could find the right levers.

And I am too busy, going through the motions of the scraps that are left of my life and my volition, to even begin the long slow dance in search of them.

Some day, I fear, I will use you; I will hurt you terribly, and I will not have chance to explain, and you will never, ever know why.

\----

I know Raoul, now. I know what drives him. I know what keeps him. I know what strength he has, and where his weaknesses lie. And it is tempting just to generalise; to assume that both white wemics with black markings that share the same ship and the same chosen family are the same.

Sometimes I can't even tell you apart to talk to you.

I know the shape of your life, Drake; I know the people you care about; sometimes I even fool myself into thinking I know why. But you are a cipher, and I don't know what lies inside you.

Perhaps, if you're very fortunate, you'll never have to find out.

\----

In my mind's eye, your tail lashes nervously from side to side.

I don't care if you don't even have one; it is constantly searching for danger, even as your eyes are, even as your nose is, even as your restless stance suggests, Ace.

There are ways to be immortal, child, but you wouldn't like them.

\----

"And there was a red and black one."

You cluster like moths or darting insects, always on the edge of vision, always dancing around the edges of our world but never quite interpenetrating.

I suppose it is your world, really; but here, in this place, it is our world now.

I do not expect Dreamwalker to accept that, of course.

\----

"He's gone and disappeared again, hasn't he?"

You do not get to see me at my lowest ebb. If I was still there, I would not be here at all, exposing my bitterness to the cool night air. The Long Grass Tribe get to see me picking up the threads that once I was satisfied would always be my life.

Meanwhile, you have a civilised conversation, with your natural predators.

One day, you will be Kamakurans, perhaps. Or you will all be like the Solarians, your breeding caste serving the immortal masters. Or maybe, if I can allow myself to hope, you will be Gerosans; but the myrmidons will be extinct, I think, that way.

Or we will all be dead, and the world fallen into darkness.

\----

People always go on, Noah. You can murder an entire city-state and life will crawl from the rubble. People always go on.

Do I want to see the kittens? Of course I want to see the kittens. I love kittens, I love children, I love the signs of life asserting itself against the backdrop of tragedy and despair.

Of course, I don't get to see the kittens. You cluster around the tavern and I see you superimposed on the sight of him staring in from the darkness, and I remind myself; past trends are no indication of future performance.

Your people ebb and flow, like the ocean, like the endless sands; but the dunes give out onto the grasslands, and the seas may run dry before the end.

\----

Why is no-one guarding the library?

Startled confusion; I did not expect to find this place empty, I did not expect to find this place ever empty.

Later, it is full to the rafters, wemics guarding the circle of light against the darkness...

but none of them are Kala.

\----

When I need to ask someone, I ask you, Mojay.

I do not want you to deflect me; I do not want to talk to the others; I asked you.

Unfortunately, once again, it looks like I should have known better if I thought that you might answer me.

\----

"Excuse me?"

I haven't seen this one before; it might be the one he referred to, so I quicken my pace, and attempt to attract its attention.

But I am not impolite enough to touch it on the shoulder, as I would with one of mine, and soon it is gone out of my reach.

It probably isn't, then; and if it is, it's not enough of an urgency to interrupt more forcefully.

I do wonder what Kulka's kind would make of this, though;

_one and five and a hundred..._

\----

If you do everything for others,

(she says, with a hypocrite's zeal)

then know that you will lose yourself.

I can see that you have left a part of yourself behind, Mal.

(and that this just reminds you of it)

Do not let that be the part that drags the rest of you with it.

\----

Don't think I can't see you, watching me.

You and yours are the future; you inherit the earth, and there is nothing left for me, but that's how it has always been, isn't it?

You can't help what you are, what your circumstances have made you, any more than I can.

At least you have the future, if you can reach out and take it.

I - genuinely - wish you all the best with it.

I just wish you could believe me, Miranda.

\----

Flashes of memory in the darkness:

Veritas sits heavily by the table in the dream, and he expresses incredulity about kittens, and why the Smith might be concerned with them, and why of all of us they had sent him to deal with it.

They confer in their council room, and come up with a list of names; whittled down to very few, one of them is still yours - Sethet - for what you did to one of theirs; "fuck 'a life for a life', we want them to know that for every one of ours they fuck with, ten of theirs will die."

In the shade of a dark green tent, I bring her a blessing; perhaps it is meant to be a blessing of conquest, but in this moment it is more of a blessing of apology. You sit on the floor beside us, tracing the carvings that adorn your weapon; silent, gentle, present in the moment.

Strands of rumour curl through the gloaming; they got a few people, there were casualties from there, they dragged him off into the woods. Sethet is dead. The champion of the Smith is dead.

Victory often feels a lot like defeat.

\----

"Is that meant to be a disguise?"

(claws teeth wemic faces that look unavoidably like the myrmidon they are not meant to be; there is a confidence to your people that was never broken, a second-guessing that you do not wear on your sleeves as we do)

One foot in front of the other. You are useful to me, Opcholi. I like to believe that I am useful to you. I like to believe that we will be useful to the world. In the end, I try to convince myself, that is all that matters.

(in the darkness her face twists with the anger of a mother for the destroyer of her children; there are moments before this one and deeds outside this one that she thinks should not be forgotten or forgiven)

"I will talk to the invaders for you."

\----

Some time ago, I sat in a room, and I said goodbye to each and every one of you; not out loud of course, but I looked at each one in turn making my prediction of who would survive the coming season and who would not.

So I suppose it is fitting that I do not know how you are dead, I do not know that you are dead, and I would not even think to ask; but you are dead, Lucas, and I was correct, in that pronouncement at least.

\----

Monday Afternoon, Outside of Flambard:

"Do you recognise him?"

He is lashed to a chair as they bay for his blood all around him.

For his blood, for his soul, for his punishment; for everything they can possibly rain down upon him.

And... I do the things I can, although I am not at home here any longer, although those who can help are not my people.

And... I have a dog in this race, I have a personal grievance, I have been wounded here... there are many that are to blame for this descent, for this hard path I walk between the sharp rocks and the lashing waves, between losing myself and losing the world. But if there was one, if there was a single cause, it would be here, crying out for them to simply get on with it, to finish it, to finish him.

And... I remember how I could not answer him, I recognise him in this moment; I remember his desperation; his challenge.

We go through the motions, we dance the steps; we pull it all together in the end, in the last moment.

But I remember the twisted madness suddenly on his brother's face, and I know we will never know the reasons that they sought to find. 

He would never have been satisfied.

I do not have the choice.

I have to make the few scraps I can put together into enough to satisfy me.

\----

"I'm kind of scared of them. They have flamethrowers."

"I'm kind of surprised I haven't been killed by one of them yet."

"Killing bad people doesn't make you a bad person."

She sits in a wooden chair. Too many heavy, bruising falls; too many broken windows with their jagged glass fragments; she can't even smother it, can't even gently crush it to death with the little strength that remains.

But the fire had not reached the cot by the time she manages to pick herself up off the floor and drag herself across the intervening space, and so she rocks it and croons in a soothing voice, if slightly cracked every time she accidentally breathes too hard.

Maybe it is useless, maybe they will search the empty hovel in any case, maybe they have told someone who is close enough to come. Maybe no-one would risk the flames even for the screams; maybe the deed is done already.

The heat throws itself across the small room, presaging the licking, consuming flames. She turns, awkwardly, to protect the child from it. Not long now. The heat rises; she holds herself steady, calm and still, as close to gone as she can sustain without leaving.

Individual, searing embers that she dare not move to brush away; then her dress catches, and her hair, and the chair that she sits on, and she hears a small, quiet, confused noise above the roaring of the flames as they take her and lift her from the world; a final noise, she expects, from a life that was never to be.

The blissful numbness of the place that is not a place floods over the tightly wound coil of her senses like the shock of jumping into the cold ocean, and finally, formless in the void, she screams - frustration and relief and loss and grief, fading into unreality, none can hear.

Tiny fingers curl and smoke in the abandoned night.

The bastard is dead; the line is safe; she does not lose too many years.

_The community is greater than any individual._


	57. Everyone, Everything

"Yes, we have heard about how you abused the trust placed in you."

Ninety days in the crushing emptiness of it, the wreckage and the heat and the curious lack of flies; the tense first week, the relief each time another objective was achieved, the creeping sense of timelessness as the birds did not sing and the enemy did not come.

The marching and the chanting of lonely voices in the wilderness; of many people who had come together, but were strangely alone.

Healed scars in the great amorphous wall. The grand corridor down which they had taken the fight, obliterated. The very picture of control; watch rosters, everyone watching each other, everyone watching the plains; phantom claws and real claws, phantom clubs and real maces, nervous practice for a fight that never comes.

\----

"I wanted everyone to know everything."

She does not say, _you can tell me to piss off if that's what you mean,_ because she has nowhere else to go.

The night swarms around her; the endless procession of individuals (is that a Fallen she knows in the corner? she could get closer and check, but what good would come of it? no-one would believe her), the tolerant look that she gets in response to her earnest attempts.

No positive identification. No evidence. No credibility. No support base. The truth has failed her, and Apharanta hasn't the patience for the lies.

Then everything happens at once.

\----

"Don't execute him," she says weakly; but her residual influence is not enough, either.

The swords go up. The swords go down.

She had only just given the warning when suddenly everyone was on their feet and the air was full of steel; she paid out better than she got until they came in from her massive blind spot and her legs went from under her, and finally she found the time to scream out for backup, as she desperately struggled to pull the remnant of her collapsing form into the path of the swords.

The swords go up. The swords go down.

She cannot believe this is happening. It is surreal. It is impossible. It does not end like this.

The swords go up. The swords go down.

The cavalry comes, but too late. The cavalry is always late. The cavalry hesitates at the tent-mouth as agonizing seconds pass.

"Don't worry, lass."

And it ends like this... at least for him.

\----

You are tattered and torn, and most of one arm is simply gone already, but you cling stubbornly to the world as it turns alarmingly around you. You cling stubbornly to the world, as they have not punctured you like a deflating balloon; broken, delirious, but not yet fading, you watch them pick him up and take him away. They talk about surgeons, and you repeat softly, not on purpose but because there is not enough left of you for more - "He's dead, he's dead, they killed him."

You try to hold their faces in your head, but they shift and warp as fluidly as the aftermath of battle; you can state certain facts about them, but they are facts that apply to so many. Calls for everyone who isn't doing something useful here to leave; they finally come to you, offer to send you on, drag you - kindly - out of the way. You see your brother out of the corner of your eye - the one you cannot envy, still, even as he takes everything from you that you had earned, that you had _built_.

"Can you do anything?"

You almost manage to turn to answer them, pulling weakly in the right direction until sympathetic hands redirect you, but you cannot summon the concentration to speak to him.

"Not in this state," you admit, wracked with pain, not just for the moment but for the inability to give up and leave the world in good time, for the way you always cling too long, and a little in anticipation of what is about to come.

"Amaranth is at least moderately trustworthy."

The steel bites into the screaming agony that is the remains of your form, and you do not cry out, and you do not cry out, and you fade.

Then you catch the same burning strand that took you to this place, and then you run.

\----

"And in the name of the Merchant, I lay this soul to rest."

The cavalry are always too late.

He's standing here. You scream at him. You have to do something. This is something. "Where were you? Why weren't you _there_?" Crazy-angry, out of control, you attempt to share your burden.

"They sent me away."

"And you _listened_ to them? Why did you _listen_ to them? If you had been there, you could have stopped them!"

A butterfly rages in the darkness; he stands, impassive, because he can do nothing else.

"Which way did he go?"

You haven't been paying enough attention. You do not think he will accept you again. You do not know what to do.

So you stand in the darkness, until they have all dispersed beyond your sight, and then you walk.

In body, you are walking through the camps in the darkness, but you are still back in that lighted tavern, screaming for anyone to save him; screaming for anyone to save you.

But... you see someone you have been looking for, and you begin to pick up the threads again, because what can you do? What else can you do, but to carry on, but to continue?

\----

"I need to know if I made the right call," he asks me, in the darkness.

I tell him the facts, again. There were at least half a dozen of them, well equipped. The cavalry showed up and were about thirty seconds behind them as they scooped the remaining bodies and ran. (I do not tell him who it was who came out of the darkness to an apathetic bar or who said they would send for help, or who was seen talking to them in the interim, although I would pass that one on later.) The three of them would probably just have been killed.

Then I am told that I can give a better witness statement when I am more coherent, and there is a knife at my throat and I am choking on my own blood, softly, subsumed in the horror of it all; I try to remember their faces, but all I can think of is _hessonite did this so much better._

His glowing visage no longer resonates across the place beyond places. 

Illyes is alone, and I cannot reach him, and I am too much of a coward to force my presence upon him; so I take the mission that I should have taken, when I faded for the first time this festival, and I stalk through the darkness, but nothing further is there.


	58. Inevitable, Endless

"You've been out protecting us against the bad people."

She can see them talking, in arm's reach, but impossibly far away; they are up in the high reaches of the cliffside and she is picking her way across the sunken platforms, clinging to the remnants.

Meanwhile, with war-paint like a flower, this mortal is taking her apart.

"But you've got to trust your friends."

They are saving the world, or changing it, or destroying it, while she stands and listens to the things she has been trying to tell herself, but cannot. The distance is too deep; they don't even understand where she is, and she is still too proud to ask them to help directly, still too afraid of a sudden judgement from those who might have been her allies... 

those who might have been her friends.

And later, oh, later, he has new scales too; neither of them could help him, in the half-light of the shrine, in the twilight of the long days. Her halberd aches in her hands - "But why do the gods allow it?" - and the helplessness eats at the narrow ledge.

"You are the hands of the gods," she didn't quite say.

"You are their hands," and we are the voices that scream into the empty darkness, the empty light, hoping that someone can hear us, that someone has the will to act.

But I will not walk the path down into darkness of my own accord.

There is nothing there for us either.

\----

Endless circling; it is evening, somehow, and I am looking for a new face, although one I have seen before. Taking one lead after another, circulating, never challenged, never involved...

"Why are there so many eidolons haunting my fucking tent?"

Another item crossed off the list; another option discounted; another avenue closed. One foot in front of the other; evening sun, new scales, narrowing pathways along the cliff's edge, and all the rope bridges that she can see are frayed and fragile.

And the void beneath them is so very deep and dark.

"So, the opposite of what you just said, then?"

Faces in the darkness. Spider-webs in the place between places. (A hunger and a hunger and a jealousy; and the fourth commandment spread out across their faces, not quite gone after all.) At least... at least she still speaks to me, when she speaks to everyone.

"Some kind of woodcut, with a crowd scene of people, and somewhere in there is Tarn Sidell?"

A brief meeting; the one request she can't fulfil, can't do it, won't do it any more, won't scream out of her shredded lungs for aid that is not coming for a third time, won't watch another champion go to their death while the cavalry does not come.

Instead - in a small way - she makes the world a more ordered place.

"Does misery want company?"

There are only moments, that follow each other without sense or meaning, that cluster around her, disconnected pieces of experience; the thirsty grass, the chocolate cake, the unexpected taste of lemon in the water.

And between the moments there are images. Memories intertwine with things that never happened, that would never happen; she says 'unpleasant' but in some ways she means 'fascinating'. (The thing with the beak, though? That is definitely unpleasant.)

The vibrant, raw edges of pain are the most reliable indicator of reality; if she can still feel, then she knows that she has not lost her footing entirely.

She watches the parts of him twitch, gouts of ichor and gobbets of flesh erupting from the chitin beneath her blade, and wonders again at how satisfying it feels, in this form, in this moment. She looks down at another and she thinks of red blood, of finding out how detailed this manifestation really is, but she remembers how she used to be when she acted in the way that he acts, and she prepares the remains and lines up and does the job neatly with a single slice.

From time to time she is asked to attempt some task. They are all very kind to her when she inevitably fails.

He says, just pretend that you have no idea what you are doing or are meant to be doing, no purpose; he says, you'll learn to ignore the feeling that you always need to be doing something useful, you'll get over it. You laugh, disbelievingly, in his face, at all his twenty-seven years of wisdom and experience.

"I think they are just doing it to make me hate myself even more than usual."

"Care to explain what you mean by that?" he asks. "Or don't you feel like it?"

There is an knife's edge in those words, and she looks up to the stars for a long moment before walking it.

_I wanted to hear him out, but I couldn't find him. I didn't want to play my hand this early. I didn't even know which way I would play it; I have been secretly hoping that he would somehow have a way, that he would make some sense; I am sick of the way we destroy each other to preserve ourselves, of how easy it is to send others down into the dark which we so fear._

"I've just failed at everything today," she says, "this festival; I feel like I should just go away, not be here..."

She does not even remember what he said; all she remembers is the darkness and the frustration of the second failed attempt and the mob disintegrating behind her, and shouting accusations because it was better than just telling him I am alone and I was not made to be this way and it hurts every moment, even when I think that I have got over it, especially when I think I have got over it.

Then she is sweeping away through the night once again, keeping him in sight, the one last faint point of light in this dark world. Making all the same mistakes, all over again.

But she knows there will be another dawn, there will be more of life; there will be more of love.

Neither she, nor the world, has it in themselves to end.


	59. Avalanche

"Interesting. That's almost like one of the old ones."

I drift in the place beyond places and I cannot hear the things you hear; but I hear this, this adjunct to the new War, this faceless missive. How can you call it old, something we have been missing barely a year, if that?

"I wonder who it's from."

A drifting thought reaching across the emptiness; I speak, with what little there is of me.

"See if Avalanche can hear it."

\----

I see the joy on your face, and I have my answer - and my heart breaks for it.

Walk your path, brother - walk your path, and do not let them tempt you from it. There are few of us who have the strength to follow through even as far as you have done. I would not see you with another ten thousand years of this upon you, just for the taste of a scrap from the table.

But I see the reflection of the light that I basked in at the end of the last festival shining from your features, and I know there is nothing I can say that will make it better.

You will have to find the strength to leave within yourself.

_The right to achievement cannot be given to another._


	60. The Pattern Of Her Life

"One of the natives said there was a whole load of new missions from theirs, something about identifying some of the undead."

"I guess it'll be like the ones we had about the Freeloaders last festival, then."

Duty brings me almost unconsciously to my feet. There is no rest for the wicked.

"If the mission is 'Give Essen a hug', I expect you to be right back!"

Refuse the offers of 'help' - head out into the evening, briefly pulled back, finally fading.

"Nothing new here."

"I didn't recognise him."

"So now is when the big wave of undead will be hitting the camps."

_Help the living to protect themselves from the danger of the undead._

"Close enough."

\----

The pattern of your life, since you lost the builder, goes like this:

You try to do the right thing, with mixed results.

Then you find someone to fixate upon. Ideally they are a builder, or somehow associated with religious buildings. Sometimes you marry them.

They die, or go away. Optionally, you spend quite some time dealing with their legacy.

You try to do the right thing, with mixed results.

"The most dangerous people, in about this order, are an alchemist, a priest, or a theurge."

\----

_Sometimes I know there's nothing to say.  
So do I pick up my puzzle and just walk away?  
Do I follow my conscience?  
Am I mock sincere?  
I don't know what I'm doing here._

You watch her walk away.

The person who walked into this festival with your soul symbol would have followed her. They would have stuck to her side despite all but the most pointed objections, following the glowing shadow of the Will that clings to her and illuminates the world around her, shining through the halo of her hair. They would have chased her through the evening, hoping that some of that glory would reflect onto them, that they could be the echo of that light.

You are not that person. Maybe one day you will be again. But you are not them today.

(the sword slices through your arm and the ruins of his armour both, and you begin to realise that your presence is useless, that all your effort was wasted, that all you worked for has unravelled)

You sit next to him, instead.

\----

_I have a knack for perceiving things.  
I can see how it sounds.  
I can feel how it sings.  
When you paint me an image of who you are,  
I know it's the best by far._

"One, two... three!"

They are... remarkably similar, she thinks.

As soon as she thinks it, she knows that it is a falsehood. She knows that she simply wants it to be true; that she wants someone to identify with, someone who might even start to understand. And she knows she cannot find this in some mortal man - gods know, she's tried before, so many times, and all it brings is an awkward distraction.

"It always confuses me how people assume that angels don't have sex."

"What, in or out of the pocket?"

"Both. Either."

"Now I know what you do in there! It's just one non-stop orgy..."

The grass is strikingly, vividly green; the evening sun illuminates the occasional shouts of "Undead!", the running, the inevitable lack of getting there in time, not that she is any use for anything. The injured on the ground, the milling around, the voice of a blessing being deployed. She watches, makes the appropriate noises, tries not to think of the darkness beckoning invitingly from beside the path, the endless void into which they are dropping those who had the misfortune of being on the wrong side.

"You know I'm going to get you killed, right?"

They are pacing around the edge of a tent between the encampment and the woods, totally without backup, totally exposed. It turns out the people in the woods are friendly and the fight is over before they get there, but she can easily see it all going wrong instead.

(they start to file in and march down the centre in a determined procession and she sees one that she absolutely recognises and she places a hand on his shoulder and she warns him, too late, always too late)

"By the power of the Maelstrom, mass detect eidolon!"

"I think he just likes making me glow."

"You know that doing that all the time isn't good for you, right?"

The gate guard get chocolate cake and dainty little cups of water. And for a moment it is almost like a forward camp on the Amun-Sa border, looking out across the savannah, having a friendly conversation with an old soldier; if you can discount the snakes and the questions and the other angels in the camp.

\----

_No point of view is enough to quell,  
the rigors of passion in this world I dwell.  
If I'm going to scale the highest wall,  
I'm gonna give it my all._

"No. I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to do that hideous eidolon thing where I get all maudlin and complain to some luckless mortal about things that happened five thousand years ago."

Someone has scrawled a 'W' across the sky in stars, right where she cannot help but see it, because sometimes the gods have a terrible sense of humour. He tells her how it is really an upside-down 'M', and how eidolons hunt by movement, and how Mardocai spared the Artemans, and how he named one of his kittens with the true name of a fallen eidolon.

From time to time they are interrupted; Axinita wants to interrogate her over some trivial piece of failure that has already been rendered meaningless by the passage of time, and the worst thing is that it didn't help anyway, even though it should have done; Brent wants her to lie to some people, which she does a terrible job at, whichever way you look at it; Lothar wants her to lead a couple of misguided hit squads which inevitably fail to find their target.

At least Jason James had the decency to be a reasonable age for a well-travelled and long-historied human being. He tells her how old he is, and she laughs in disbelief; how can so many changes, so many events, so many formative experiences fit into such a minuscule time-frame? The New World does such strange things to the standard ebb and flow of time.

"You are _not_ a bad person."

She laughs, derisively.

The flames rise in the abandoned hovel; the horses draw away from the village as she pronounces her verdict; the church falls into ruins under the assault of her and her brothers, the stained glass dissolving into rainbow fragments, each of which is pounded into dust.

She tells him of the book and the stones, of what she did in the periphery, of how she has only stayed on the paths along this cliffside because of the lack of opportunity - because of how the Faithful won the War, and have won every skirmish ever since.

"You called it what?"

He calls her his dark mistress, and she reminds him that he's mortal, although also that he could totally take her in a fight; she remembers the blue one on his hands and knees, she remembers the other one's hands grasping for a lover that he would never see again.

She does not say any of the things she would once have said, if she was still the angel who first washed ashore with a satchel full of invitations. "The difficulty is getting a message out," she says. She does not say that he is not the first to offer her this.

Apharanta's impulsive nature rises within her as, obliquely, he asks for her Name - but she does not give in to it.

\----

_Riding along with this train of thought,  
I see everything, I find all I sought.  
And I try to kick the habit of trying to reach.  
But there's something I do beseech._

"So, were you going to successfully proposition me, then?"

Of course, she can't even get this right. The look on his face as she returns makes it clear that he's been waiting for hours; the rest of the camp has cleared out and the fire has died.

She can't help being pleased that he waited for her.

It doesn't matter, she knows, how much she tries to tell herself that it doesn't mean anything; there are plenty of times when it doesn't mean anything, and this is blatantly not one of them.

"I'm technically Rukh - well, I was with the Rukhi colony at the time - and she's Amun-Sa. It's more that she gets confused when I don't have a harem."

There is a vast continuity that sings through her in these moments. Not just every time that she has done this, many of them quite mundane, expressions of politics or raw need or a strange kind of abasement. But every time she has tried to fill the hole in her life that he left, and every time she has succeeded, if only for a moment.

Fur against skin; long practice against a surprising range of experience; late into the darkness of the night, they come together, and for a moment there is nothing but the moment, nothing beyond this, no past and no future, no plans and no fears, just this.

_Do not strive to accomplish something you can achieve with a moment's thought._

\----

_I'll say it's not surprising.  
You're sweet talking, mesmerizing, juicy and appetizing.  
True.  
But will I need to get over you?_

"I saw her go that way, she went once around the camp, checked in the main Mill'enese tent, and then left through the gate about five minutes ago."

I agree with him before I realise what he has said, and I'm not sure that it's true, despite the occasion upstairs in the Cardini mansion, with the wheelbarrow and the broken shards. I think it is her childish, glowing form that I like least of all.

He says that it is a bad sign, that it means that she is not fixed, but it looks like a good sign to me; the cycle starts again, the Nightmare is caged; she was also too late, just like the rest of us. It would have been awkward if we had broken her for good, even if part of me is... deeply uncharitable... about the whole charade.

I could act out; I could act crazy, I could put on a story, I could wear a fairytale. I could start screaming and screaming and never apologise and never explain. I could manifest things for my brethren that I thought would hurt them most.

And maybe it would gather attention, and maybe I would just be put down like a mad dog; I know she is still itching to do it, that is why I taunt her when I am running close to the fire, because sometimes there is nothing between the fire and the darkness.

The cycle starts again. I give her all the evidence, but she still lets him loose in her camp, spreading the carefully crafted doubts that he has been building up, making friendships, making it more difficult; there is no evidence, and once again he gets away.

For now, she, at least, accepts me at face value - I do not know if she is humouring me, I do not know what she says about me in her prayers, but there are no veiled requests to leave, no unrealistic expectations that she attempts to load upon my shoulders.

I try not to bound over to him when he arrives, because I know how this goes, because I know how this ends. "I don't intend to die," he says, but even with the new opportunities that there exist out here, there is no sign that he is serious about it.

"See? Don't try to tell me you're not useful."

(That fails, too, of course, and I let him get away while I'm at it - not that I had any chance of catching that one in the first place, without competent backup.)

\----

_Feels like my sun is rising.  
Tick, tick, tick, synchronizing, readjusting, organizing me.  
Is this fiction reality?_

"I still don't have anything to do this season."

Last day of the festival; the storm is refusing to break, and so our perceptions relax outwards, across the whole of the New World and the whole of the season to come.

"Your job is to carry messages."

I don't hit him in the face, because it would not help, because I am in control of myself, because I do not need to prove his point for him. Because I am already looking at the future, which seems as secure as it has ever been; because I have something - a foothold, a platform, a moment to catch my breath... and that means I have something to lose.

_The weak destroy what they could control._

"It's not the easiest cake to break in half."

Sitting in the back of the tavern, you told him that he had underestimated the colossal extent of your selfishness, but if nothing else you are paranoid not to let it show out here, in front of these people.

You know the next few months, the few brief seasons as the world holds its breath, depends to a great extent on their opinion of you.

It's no longer a terrible fear of extinction; you meant what you said to Veritas, despite the worrying trend towards new scales and new faiths among the avant-guarde. There are always more humans; they breed like, well, humans.

But you're still not sure that you trust yourself without direct orders, and you do want to see what happens.

"I saw our mutual friend earlier today. He was definitely in favour of seeing the world burn, and I expect he's attempting to organise the others, although they seem to have almost as much success as we do on that account..."

You see him sitting by the tavern some time later, a downcast look on his chitinous face, and there is no grand finale; 

it turns out that they are cowards, too.

\----

_Bless the uncompromising  
with no shame for advertising  
when my needs go through downsizing  
I need someone to pick up my beat._

"And I guess I'll have to tear down the Basilica."

I did not tell you my life story.

I did not tell you my life story, and therefore you have no idea what this means to me.

I did not tell you my life story, and I react only with a little vehemence. I try to reason with you, as you try to distract me; I try to talk you out of it, but only using the tools I have been given. 

I do not want to tell these people any more than they need to know. I do not want to tell them about the card with the myrmidon builder, about the soaring cathedrals of music when the world was at its thinnest, about my latent and aching obsession.

But... do not take me with you, when you tear down the basilica.

I will feel obliged to oppose you; I will take up arms against you; I will fail and you will kill me and it will be _really embarrassing._

And if I tell you any of this, I know that I will never have a hope of finding out where it is and getting the local authorities - if there are any - to stop you.

(I can only succeed at things which fulfil one of the following categories:

a) they are not what I'm supposed to be doing;  
b) they require me to kill the things I love and tear down any edifice which is recognisably mine;  
c) any progress is utterly destroyed shortly thereafter.

I was hoping you were going to be c), and on the old timescales at that, but it keeps looking like you might be b), and that upsets me.)

You promise to rebuild it, whilst you explain the science behind your reasoning, whilst she demonstrates that she does not intend to listen to me; but all I can see is his churches falling, the places I would once have taunted him for his personal attention to building, 

and blue mandibles hissing, "They destroyed her."

\----

_My dreams need realizing.  
Candles on sugar icing.  
Judgment and harmonizing,  
or it'll end up like before._

For a moment she jumps to entirely the wrong conclusion; then she realises whose symbol it is that he is wearing.

"There are few enough opportunities for us to display virtue."

She briefly wonders if it might be embarrassing when she inevitably drops the propaganda she had almost forgotten she was carrying, as they sit and devour it excitedly, under the shelter of the awning.

Maybe she'll even read it at some point, but she is fairly sure that she knows what it says.

(Having finally found him, she sits and listens, but he is too far gone - and the worst thing is, so many of the things he says are true. Poor creature - oh my brother - did you not realise these things, did you think they would come as a surprise to me? Did it come as a surprise to you?

You ask me if I have not the stomach to carry out that particular commandment.

I could have cut you down; I could have followed you, I could have shouted, I could have raised the hue and cry; but for what purpose?

So instead I stand there, as you look over your shoulder, and I wonder whether you will betray me; I watch you go, and I wonder how many you will kill and how many souls you will take, but I cannot deny you the opportunity.

 _the right to achievement cannot be taken from another._ )

And afternoon follows morning; and the storm does not break.

("I never wanted Mardocai to beatify me. Can you imagine it? He'd be standing there and going, 'look at me, I'm Mardocai, and I'm awesome'.")

Maybe she does have something to do this season, after all.


	61. If We Did Not Hide

_Exactly where should I begin,  
Forgive me father I have sinned,  
Been caught perpetuating wrongs,  
I screamed in accusation,_

Light and shadow; the curving arches of the basilica, the candles and the incense, and the streets and the alleyways and back rooms of improvised drinking establishments; for a moment it is almost like home.

But there are barely a few hundred people in a hundred square miles; he emerges from the workshop with the edges of strange geometries in his eyes, and technical terms she knows that she will never begin to comprehend.

The waves lash against the edge of the cave mouth, and the wind sings with the words of walking ghosts, that all things will pass, all things will end, all of your works will come to nothing. So Jennah stays close to the fire, the dancing shadows on the walls sing - eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow will no longer look like it always has done.

Yet everything changes and everything remains the same. Shadows of the past, in a builder that she cannot trust; in a people too well-taught to give an angel their Name.

_And yet convinced that still I can,  
Somehow be better than I am,  
If I could only bring myself,  
To step in one direction._

The world sings.

Every blade of grass; the air and the sky; the spider which sprawls across the chair...

...the dream sings, the resonance follows, there is no end to it and no beginning, there is just the song which is new every moment, the song which lets her...

...which lets her remember the past, without wishing that it would return.

Each moment shines with the glory of its passing; all things end, all things begin anew.

The resistance is still there, but the song draws her through the direction that she was never bold enough to take. And she knows that it is only for a moment, as all things are; but there will be another moment after that one; but it is enough.

The bard sings to the world, or at least its stumbling messenger.

"What is love?"

_But all this progress that I've made,  
Has left me bitter and afraid,  
I bolt the doors and let the  
Trappings of my life surround me,_

Take your eyes off them for a moment and they are gone.

(it is so beautiful)

She expects in every moment for them to cut her down, so they can talk to it alone.

(it is a new body, but it is your voice)

The patterns are so easy and so seductive, the roles that she has been ascribed; the part that she plays so effortlessly, because it is what she was made to do.

(but the world would be better if we did not lie)

Then he is there and he reinforces the things that she said, the things that she was meant to say, but has never once meant, not even when the world was fresh and new.

(you have to kill the ones you love)

Much later, she would watch it breathe - watch her breathe, so young and beautiful and fragile - and know that she made the right decision, but wonder if she ever really had a decision to make.

(it is so beautiful)

"So privacy is like invading, but you do it to the place you already are in?"

_And hope to God nobody calls,  
But trust the scratching in the walls,  
To be my comfort and my shelter  
From the world around me._

"So is there any truth in that?"

"I only have two data points; they both reported audible hallucinations."

He flicks through the pamphlet; she reads it over his shoulder, as is always the way of the world.

She forgets to ask what he does with the scroll.

_Ignore the whisper on the wind,  
Forgive me father I have sinned,  
I swear right now I'd cling  
To anything you'd care to show me,_

She steps between the gaps, between the moments; follows its clumsy footsteps in the dance.

They dance with swords drawn, and she dances in its wake as it runs to them, demands to know what is happening; walks in the space that it clears, keeps time and step into the crowd, spreads a fine mist of explanations and requests.

Pictures of the family; distractions and sidesteps, and they are working until the swords come out again.

Eyes on eyes, on the ground. She watches a possible future recede, watches the world come to a decision, braces herself for the bleeding and the screaming; but the giant is somehow gentle, the situation somehow gets better, things work out; she wonders if her words were wasted.

She looks away for a moment - to establish, to explain - and, as always, when she looks back it is gone.

_To save me from improper thoughts,  
That modern miracle of sorts,  
Against a tide of advertising,  
And survival only._

"I am the angel," she says later, "that does the things no-one else wants to do."

Sometimes it is not obvious, the thing no-one wants to do; as expected, she cannot find him easily, and so she finds herself in the darkness with a free shot of vodka, listening to Gerosans and natives.

(it would be better if we did not hide)

It is comfortable in the darkness. They cannot see the brand she wears upon her forehead; here she is just another anonymous patron, and so she gives her form's name when asked, like she has not for some seasons now.

(imagine a world where everyone tells everyone everything)

Eventually the crowd thins out; she heads out and catches him, and is surprised to find that no-one else has. She attaches herself like a shadow, flowing near and far, providing an audience if nothing else; and in return he provides her with two connections she had not yet made.

(it would be better if we did not hide)

"I have never murdered someone unjustly," he says.  
She murmurs, "Define unjust."

she rides away from the farmhouse where there will be only one survivor; she leaps over the rubble to cut down the child as she runs; she spins and buries her halberd in another chitinous body

wrong place, wrong time; she can justify each one, but not always by the Huntress' laws; and there are so many, she knows, that she simply cannot remember.

_Poor condition has been set,  
And every new potential threat,  
Must be eradicated from   
the face of all that's sacred,_

"And then I finally appeared somewhere that wasn't a Weaver shrine."

I fall out of the sky somewhere much more familiar, on something familiar but strangely terse. I think this is one of the reasons: I can just tell him what I actually know, what I actually think, because I know it can't derail his ways of coping with the world.

And we get it done, despite the confusion with the axolotl and the need to take a short break to rescue people that I only recently understood the importance of.

Then, of course, everything is going too well; so he tells me what he's planning, and I can't even... 

If I was selfish... if I really was as determinedly self-serving as I always claim... I would have no objections. I'd even had a plan to ask him to. It would be more awkward the way that he'd planned, but nothing lasts forever, the tide would turn again.

But that... that is not what I feel at all.

I do not want to admit that there are things that I care about beyond myself; that I do not want to see some kinds of suffering, that there are things that I want from the world beyond that which benefits me.

(If I admit it, then I have to admit that I fail and I do so in ways that are often irreparable; whereas I can always redefine what survival means, as long as there is a me to do so, and if there is not... well, then I do not have to worry about it any more.)

I bring out all of the weak arguments, because I am in shock; he looks at me and we both know how pathetic my reasoning is. I cannot say, not because I don't want to but because I cannot articulate it yet, what I really mean.

(I want to have you forever; but I do not see how this can not end badly.)

And then we turn a corner and he is there, new symbol on his forehead, grinning like he has just won the prize; and I cannot tell him, now, what he will think about it in a thousand, two thousand years' time.

_Not just anger for the cause,  
I'll be hysterically yours,  
And deaf to any reason,   
Evidence or explanation._

She starts bleeding from the nose and the eyes and the mouth.

There is a tense moment while I cover the door, and he keeps the flamethrower pointed in his general direction. The other two have both been found blameless, at least in the 'not stupid enough to give up their true names' sense. 

I wonder, for a moment, if there might be a reprieve; but, of course, there is not.

She falls to her knees and proclaims his extreme radiance, and for a moment I feel like turning on my heel and stalking off into the now-distressingly lovely sunny day outside; but why should I? It is not as if it would actually help reopen the brief chapter.

He has the temerity to ask me how I feel about all of this.

"Upstaged," I admit.

There is no need to add lies to failure.

At least, at last, perhaps I can learn not to be a coward.

_So tell me what have I become?  
A middle finger to the sun?  
I traded fireworks for love  
and I was left with nothing,_

a swirl of impressions:

the poor thing is surrounded, it is getting quite upset

he makes some excuse about not being good enough while trying to get in my face

so I drag the child away from the wolves and isolate the possibilities

(she blames me for impatience; but I do what works)

he begins to tell us his life story; together we listen, like she says we should

(then she tells me that I have a gift with words)

we are almost there, perhaps, when he runs me down screaming

so I fall through into the world

(earlier, I explain to him why the journey is so hard; now, I tear through with sheer panic and determination, no time for the finesse and no calm for the measured focus...)

It is much busier than I expected out here - and someone I trust is already on the scene.

"Status report!"

For once, one of my brothers doesn't argue and tells me exactly what I need to know.

_But paper shards and empty shells,  
A burst of sulphur blown to hell,  
It might just be that all this  
history has taught me something._

I don't precisely tell him to fuck off, but I know he can see it in my eyes. It does no good; that one is an immovable object.

(We have another attempt at making trouble for him later, just to pay it forwards, but I expect that to bounce off too.)

Every time I look around there are more of them, until the inevitable happens; it's his fault, of course, and probably it is inadvertently useful -

Once I have finished being trampled and clinging desperately to the seat that I have washed up against, the most competent person is in charge and the troublemakers have all declined to return to the area.

From outside of this little bubble of reality, there are screams and there is running and there is shouting; but we are insulated here, as I stay small and quiet and drink it all in.

(Maybe I could have taken the other path, out there in the darkness; maybe I could have saved a few; I do not expect them to mention me in any of this, either way.)

I am briefing people as they arrive and depart and I am fetching water and I am identifying the suspects and I am promising to stay - 

_So I'm taking lessons from the past,  
They won't build anything to last,  
But engineered to fall apart,  
The day the warranty expires,_

\- and so do some of the others, but then suddenly she is alone.

She knows; she feels it keenly in this moment - there is no reward for virtue. Not one of them will even mention her in their prayers. It is likely that none of them will even notice.

But - "I don't want her to wake up alone."

Sometimes - often - always, there are things that need doing, because they need to be done. Things that will likely have no discernible payoff. Things that a rational, self-interested actor would never involve themselves in.

But - "I have never broken my word."

She had, of course, to drink; but the least she can do is reciprocate. So she fields every visitor, resists every temptation to go and find out what is going on, and watches them sleep through the long night.

_So keep the wheels turning round,  
Keep our flag pinned to the ground,  
Just don't look back and don't look down,  
In fact try not to look at all._

any moment now

sword drawn looking outwards, looking around, any moment now

they have seen her, they must have seen her, keeping her still and quiet vigil

so she watches and she remembers their names and their faces

any moment now

but the moment does not come

they do what they came for, they express disappointment, they leave

she looks out, scanning what little she can see of the outside world, but she cannot leave

but she must tell someone

any moment now

and for once the world lifts a burden

she sends him off with it

and still she watches and she waits

(she has never been so glad to have been abandoned)

_You'll see opinion dressed as fact,  
See definitions inexact,  
And explain away the darkest days,  
As misinterpretation,_

"WHY?"

"I expect they wanted to find out what would happen."

can't do it

open my mouth and fluent lies come out

not going to say - "They wanted to kill you"

"This gentleman wants to speak to you on an unrelated matter."

make up for it

"Oh, did you say where, not why?"

explain best I can

"YES"

find out from others

she looks at me - then I say what is in her eyes - "This is a terrible idea."

do it anyway; they can explain, they are explaining; might have finally found something this one is good for

too many angels; but can't trust anyone, can't trust any of them

(remember what she said yesterday, after the trial and after the attempted explanations in the open tent; maybe she has changed her mind, but maybe she is just letting them talk)

but she isn't killing anyone right now and that is important

watch and wait

_This dumbing down it's so uncouth,  
Like there's one single fucking truth,  
I couldn't bear that right and wrong,  
Could be so uncomplicated._

I watch him offer the other angel the mawkish dust, and I wonder for a moment.

No. I know exactly what happens then. I know what it is to want to reproduce, and now I know that I could acquire the means.

(kittens chasing each other through a basilica)

Interesting - I don't even think of becoming human. I think of two potions, although his doesn't have to be permanent, I guess.

I do not want to tread that path, so I do not say that I have never been offered any either.

_And swagger dripping from the stage,  
Curse the impatience of the age,  
It all takes time, and time is money,  
Money talks, and talk is cheap,_

"Do you have some armies up your sleeves?"

"As it happens, yes."

They have the same tails. Not quite the same tails. I dig out the mirror that Jennah habitually carries. I watch her reaction, and I remember the dream I had, a few short seasons and a lifetime ago; my reflection in the water, and how I screamed and screamed.

Her ears twitch, but she does not scream.

"Well, that one and that one can't actually die, so I guess it's only one who is that bothered."

"The white wemics might get a little muddy on the way out."

She pads off on some errand I find her, but the attack does not come in any case.

"And we don't want her to get used to killing people."

_Cheapest road to lead the way,  
From seed to forest in a day,  
And by the time the sun is set,  
There's only dirt and matchwood._

The weapon is heavy in her hands; it is sized for one much taller.

They say that they will stay; that is as good as she can do for now. The blood sings in her veins, the fur rises of its own accord across her skin, the breath catches in her lungs; she feels them so vividly.

But there is no time to contemplate, no time to watch the growing of the flowers and the flowering of the fruit bushes; as the world cleanses itself around her, she hears of the most recent results of the next outstanding problem.

They rush out into the sunlight, racing swiftly across the drying ground. The patrol is pessimistic before it even begins; he suggests she acts as beater, but that is not this form, and anyway they need this one, they need the eyes out in all directions.

"Let's disperse into an easily surprisable formation," she mutters to herself.

It is so fucking difficult to track movement in the forest when the entire forest is blossoming into bounteous and fruitful life. She hands out reassurance, she hands out a warning; she listens across the rustling for the sound of swords drawn, of knives meeting flesh.

This is not the stupidest form she has attempted to run interference for a group of dispersed mortals through woodland in, but the skirt and the oversized polearm is making it a quite close-run thing.

She watches their backs and their sides and the directions that they are blatantly not looking in; she looks up at the hiding places and the high branches, but the forest is bristling with new life and anyone even halfway competent is easily hiding from these loud bastards.

They don't even search the other half of the forest at all.

Hair-trigger, she stalks back through the field, enumerating ophidians - are you my target, are you my target? are you my problem, are you my problem? - but there is nothing to engage. She doesn't even have good descriptions. 

She calls to mind the faces and names that she knows, and she goes in search of information - and finds only failure to engage, of course. She snaps out a borrowed phrase, only later realising that it was another stock response she should have used on him.

Then she can't even remember the name of one she can picture so clearly in her mind. But at least she has picked up another task to assuage the fire that runs wild through her. You could call it the desire for vengeance, but it is simply the desire to make someone pay for it.

For all of it, for all of this, for this stupid polearm, for the twitching forest...

For Beacon, who she never knew; 

For the smile that always means something terrible is about to happen.

_So could it be the end is nigh,  
The time for idly standing by,  
Is now upon us,  
Everybody look for some distraction,_

"So; you know everything. Can I have a word?"

It comes to nothing, but it keeps her moving; and it is gratifying to be able to enlist all of these sources, even if none of them have anything useful this time.

The flowers grow gently through the mud.

"I can't make any progress on any of my current tasks, so I'm going to look for another one."

The silence between the stars, as the spiders burn; a hunger and a hunger and a jealousy, she once said, but she cannot help but feel them more benign in the current atmosphere.

And that one - just sitting there, not hidden as she'd expected. She lets her eyes roam across the face, the build, the symbol, and the little tells that all of them have.

"I thought you'd be off sulking," she says, and listens to the voice.

Then the silence begins to stretch, and she closes her eyes and filters back down into the world.

_Throw my patience to the wind,  
Forgive me father all my sins,  
Feel like they're woven,  
Double stitched into the fabric of the world._

"Are you sure you don't want a seat?"

Not in a Teacher shrine, thank you very much.

Let Auriel's pet golems laugh all they like; today, and this season, she will be happy.

There is nothing but the moment; but the moment is enough; the next moment, and the next, will take care of itself.

And if all else fails, well, maybe she can go and raise pigs in Brigadoon.


	62. Your People

We are almost invisible to each other.

I wear the fur of Mojay's people, but it is the Weaver that drives me; I do not think I have heard the Soldier in several seasons. And you are so much of the Soldier that I almost look straight through you, searching for Ishtar, for Parnassus.

And you mistake me for another that you know, and I do not manage to complete the task you set for me. I think of returning to tell you, but I am sat in the darkness and it feels right here, it feels like the pattern of history, and gradually I forget about you entirely.

We are almost invisible to each other.

\----

I scarcely recognise him through the scales.

I want to say that it is because I am not really looking, because I do not really care that much, but I am not sure - I think if Raoul had been more careful, if he had been attempting to hide himself, I would not have seen through it.

As I said to them earlier - our anti-Fallen drill has gotten rusty.

\----

I have forgotten how much you look like Ishtar.

You wear yourselves differently, of course. But both of you, in a way, are Empress; both of you, in a way, are Mother; careworn as you are, both of you shine with love, through your sandy fur.

And then your song breaks through the land, turning over the soil in a great convulsion, turning death into life, the end into the beginning; and in that moment I know that I owe you a debt I can never repay, Sha T'iel.

But I can work for a world where your children will never be forced to wear scales.

\----

Fleeting glimpses in the world between; a cipher; why did you let her go?

I could understand the two of you together, but I cannot understand the one of you apart.

If I were still Leticia; if I were still afraid; if I was still looking for an anchor...

...but I am Jennah and I exist in this moment now only and I make a few polite noises and I fade.

Later Martin sweeps me out of the moment and land me in another; 

but any you had found would have done. It's not about me, it's about you.

Fleeting glimpses in the world between, and I doubt - if all goes well - that I will be back here this season.

\----

It is only when you are sitting outside that door that I realise that I have never spoken to you.

That not only have I never spoken to you, that nobody has even particularly vouched for you; that I have not even really observed your behaviour much; that you are family to people who have been caught up in things that should cause suspicion.

If you were trying to play us, Valya, that paladin aura you carry would be an excellent disguise.

\----

Golems do make excellent soldiers, don't they?

It's like you can take the twenty years of Mameluk training and do it all in the space of a season; and your kind do so love having somewhere to belong, the indoctrination seems to take incredibly well.

At least you have fallen in amongst people who will let you choose your own path, even as they impress their unconscious biases on you, even though you still suffer from the instant loyalty that your kind seem to give.

There is no point attempting to reason with Zan, and I brace myself for the inevitably brief conflict that will follow when I am forced to interpose myself; but circumstances overtake that necessity, thankfully.

I just hope... I just hope you can draw back from the flame of those who will use you, who will wield you as a weapon without thinking of the consequences for your own life.

And I hope that this intervention is her, doing likewise; but I fear that is not the case - that I can see the strings.

\----

I recognise you, Hessonite.

I think, first, of what advantage I can gain from this. I think of what people might like to know. I think of what people might like to kill you; to interrogate you; to turn this shell you have inhabited inside-out, looking for anything it can provide.

But... no.

I do not have to do this. I do not have to be like this. I do not have to be always looking for the next scrap of advantage, I do not have to always be scheming and conspiring and betraying. I know where that road leads. I can be a different person now.

I can change.

\----

Of all the shapes of all the goddamn polearms he could have brought me...

I am busy. I try not to notice it. I succeed, to a great extent. I don't even wonder until later which one of them manifested it. I try to balance it, to learn the pattern of it; as we head out into the tangled web of growing life I need to know how it swings.

And I finally almost manage to forget it is there, until Stuart looks at both of us and it is there again, heavy and alien.

You are not alien, brother Auriel. You are depressingly predictable, even here, even now; and once I would have enjoyed it to see you fall apart, but now it is just an inconvenience, an itching on the edge of my vision: 

the subtle conviction that if you are in the world and you are smiling then everything is about to go wrong.

\----

I watch you as you deliver your weary protestations, and I wonder.

Do you know that he has children, too? That they are trapped just as far away as yours are? That he was married, too, that he said his goodbyes expecting them to return, and the storm closed over and sealed them apart, just like you?

In the turning of the tide that makes all things new - in the fur and the scars that you now wear - surely you know, too, that you are a different person than the one that stepped onto that boat, so few days and so many lifetimes ago?

I see that you still expect to burn yourself out - but what if you do not, Mal, and have to help rebuild?

\----

The vodka is warm against my throat, clear and fresh; a welcome distraction as I attempt to sort through my thoughts.

This form was not built for caring about this kind of thing. It defaults to what it was designed for. Listening. Being. A small cloaked figure in the darkness.

If they aren't here, what are they doing?

Instead you are here, Renian, and I do not know how deeply you are part of this. Everyone around this table is doing the same thing; we are trapped in our own worlds, in our own stories, letting only the surface through.

They arrive, briefly, and depart; later, they depart more dramatically, but you still remain.

An untouched soul; just one of the herd, one of the masses, one of the peasants, slowly and determinedly picking up the pieces.

\----

I don't see them together as often, although maybe I simply haven't found them.

There's the tent purgated to the Weaver - but I would not put a mameluk in there if I could at all help it. The poor thing must already be suffering, from so much energy and so few places to point it, what with the undead all gone to ground.

The path of the soldier is the art of the possible, and the path of the mameluk is supposed to be even further constrained; to remove the walls from the canyon and let the sunlight flood in is a terrible disservice to one who chooses it (Even if it is chosen for him? I don't know).

I don't see them together as often, but I see Asif stranded on his own half the time. Like a spear stuck into rocky ground - that is no way to treat your tools.

\----

And all of the puzzle pieces fall into place.

I think if I was Apharanta, I would have beaten Gebrinius into the ground; or at least cornered him and made him tell me everything, made him pay attention to what he had been avoiding, force someone to make it right.

But I am not, so I remain in the background; picking up and dusting off your friends, distracting your enemies, and hoping... hoping that it will be enough.

(I have never been very good on the follow-through anyway; that is why I find myself like this again, time and again, after all.)

If I had met you, Mowak, maybe I could have told you; but you were gone, for good reason, and I did not see you again.

\----

As much as I claim that I do not live in my wounds...

then I see some creature like you, Alannah, and I understand how much I still do; how much I could be if I did not let them define me. If I did not let any of this, neither past nor fear nor fortune, define me - if I really could simply be, and let the days go by how they will.

They play with you; and I cannot tell, yet, whether that tin-soldier painted smile will break.

But for now you breathe fresh still, and remind me why youth might not be such a bad thing to bring to the task. Perhaps it will displace us; but perhaps it should. Perhaps nothing ought to live forever, lest it forget the simple joys that I see in your eyes.

\----

You stretch across the table, quite part of this tribe save the mark on your brow, and I wonder how many others you have been part of, Poise and Perfect Equinamity.

And you have done well with these; they are all lively and friendly and incredibly dangerous.

I consider trying to stop you, as the backing singers intone "it is known" and the drums begin, but I can see that the way you have set this up ensures that such action would just reinforce your message.

It is just as well I started one step ahead of you in the dance, and so she is not swayed.

\----

I cross-reference the descriptions with the groups I have seen coming and going; I am sure of her, but I am less sure of Tecocol. But it makes more sense for it to be the two of you together than one of you and one of the other.

I do not think of you as people, because I do not need that level of complication; because your people do not think of others as people, so there are good arguments for me not to extend the courtesy to you.

But I tread through a minefield of people who do think of you and yours as people, and you run through it lightly - taking more chances than I can bring myself to - and you escape.

\----

I remember a bell tent, in darkness.

I remember helping you with your armour; I remember watching you tease him; I remember a candlelit tent where I sit on the floor and listen; I remember a dark night that we sally out into; I remember your face as I apologised to him; I remember your hoarse voice pleading for his life.

I remember the feeling of walking on sunlight, I remember the power that flowed through me, even though it was not mine to keep. 

I remember the admiration that I received, I remember the feeling that I was doing something that only I could do, that I had something of worth that did not belong to another.

And I think that if I was bold, and if I burnt brightly, and if I was the person I was trying to become - if I was Apharanta - then I would be able to face you, Gaelle, I would be able to face him, I would be able to talk to you about it and shadow you and help you and do all of those things again.

But I am small and fearful and feel like I have something to lose, so I do not.

\----

I wonder if Samahazai ever found out what I suggested?

Certainly he says little enough to me, but I spend almost no time in the dream and he is everywhere at once and it might just be one of those festival things.

I do hope we have not burnt our bridges; it was good to have someone I could talk to, on my level, for once.

\----

"You could have asked."

Opochtli's noncommittal, of course, makes some excuse about young wasps; and I don't really have anything for him to do, and it was only what I was expecting.

I wonder vaguely why he bothers with yet another stupid disguise that it would take three seconds for anyone who'd paid attention to his build and gait and demeanour to see straight through;

and it is not until I have left the festival grounds for the last time that I remember not everyone is as practiced in that as we are.

\----

I just wish you weren't so evil.

You have the Weaver's philosophy, right there on your tongue; you articulate virtue better than the priests, you explain and encapsulate what I have been trying to teach for eight thousand years, you demonstrate clearly why the gods will always - always - allow a devotee to renounce their devotion.

But you do not follow what you preach, Blind Harvey.

I have not seen you with my own eyes, but I have seen you with eyes that I trust as my own in this, and I have seen the corona of evil around you; I have seen the company kept by you and yours and the aid that you give and the words behind your words, and what the others do that you enable.

You would be an amazing force for good; if only you were not so evil.

\----

I remember you, Marcus.

(we sit on the grass and we look at the long corridor between the two camps)

Now, finally, you seem to be pointed in the right direction. I can only hope that it is not too late.

(I watch Amun-Sa hold itself apart, and I watch it do impossible things, and I wonder - who, really, is the stronger community?)

But I cannot hear your god (although there is an echo of an echo; aid smaller communities) and I do not interfere.

\----

I know that you will betray me.

I am not sure I will even be able to call it betrayal. You owe me nothing for what I have freely given, you have made no agreements, we are not on the same side.

But I know, as I argue for your life, that it was your people who marched on them, and that they will do it again. 

I know, as I ask after your safety, that you will happily destroy everything that I rely upon and send it on to the great spider who squats across the sky, or the depths, or wherever you put heaven in your geometry. I know that you stand against everything that I work for, that I hope for.

But I also know... I think, I feel, I hope... that you might be, in fact, my last backup plan; my final contingency.

I do not think it will come to that. I think that I believe what I have said to reassure them. But I have looked into the many eyes of you and your brethren, and I have seen a shadow of myself reflected there.

If I can keep that shadow alive, I might still outlast the gods I serve, Commandant Putoc.

\----

It's all 'maybe we can find out' and 'who might have seen it'.

Well, I know who will know, and I am sick of all this bullshit. I know where you stand. I know what drives you. I do not know what they think they have to lose. So when you join our conversation: I just ask you. And you tell the truth, as I had expected of you, although I do not know how they will dress it up in their own imagined conspiracies.

It is amazing how many things could be solved if people would just fucking talk to each other, Benedict.

But you know that, too; but they don't trust you, either, because they have not learned how to trust - they have not learned how to understand the conditionals, the parameters within which people operate - that 'trust' essentially means 'predict' rather than 'agree with'.

\----

"Several of the recent mercenary companies..."

It is surreal to be here and to be doing this, where the snakes and the Fallen were sitting.

But the business of the season never ends; the call that grounds us since we brought the first blessings never fades. So I sit here and I smile encouragingly and I sip my vodka and I contribute from time to time.

And I think your face, Jaceltharian Jinx, like his, is a face of hope: because I do not see you abandoning your skin, because it is important to remember that individual lives continue, because there are always more people.

\----

Nothing Sofia is doing is making any sense.

I understood the vodka bar. That was very much like my plan. I still have no idea what he saw in you, but finding individual human mortals that are easy to manipulate is not that difficult. I loved the hats. They were a work of genius.

I even understand the part where you stayed, even though you knew you were now so close to being caught; here is where things are happening, so here is where you would want to be. That much, I understand.

I think I understand the little Merchant cards, and I certainly understand the scroll and the pamphlet. If I was in your place I would want to pull the Host down into the dark with me; I cannot imagine your motives in that were much different.

And I thought I understood you when you killed your theurge and made off with his soul; I thought you were finally so close to the edge of being caught properly this time that you were heading off to let us forget you, with the resources to rebuild much later.

That you would not return until we had let down our guard.

And I suppose that we had let down our guard; because you were back in a form that caused that moment's hesitation, that demonstrated that our Fallen-breaking tactics were rusty from disuse, that we couldn't - that we didn't - get the right person to in good time.

But why did you do that? Why that target, in that place, where you must have known that nothing useful would result, that you would make almost no impression? I had assumed you would at least have decent poison, but no. This strange dance seemed to be for nothing.

And then I saw you in the place between places; you were not even hiding; not your symbol, not your build, not your voice, nothing.

Nothing you are doing is making any sense.

And I want to spare the time to talk to you, to find out what you are doing, but you offer some platitude about seeing the world burn - and I think, if I wanted to see the world burn, I wouldn't do it like that.

There are so many levers; and I wonder, I suppose, if you really are worth my time - if in fact you are not one of the clever ones, but have slipped out recently, have been uninteresting enough not to be too distressed by the passage of time, have not learned how to do this yet.

Nothing you are doing is making any sense - so I ignore you and I hope you go away.

Whatever you're going to do, you should at least have the decency to do it competently.

\----

I try not to look at Kala, afterwards.

I'm not sure why I am being so childish about it. Obviously you would do whatever seemed to be the practical thing; you have good enough contacts that it is likely you didn't do it the stupid way; obviously you would do whatever you thought it will take to survive.

And I don't mind it so much on Talia, but... I know we've never been that close, but we've trusted each other. I suppose that is why it feels so much like a betrayal.

\----

I am quite surprised you don't get one of those claws knocked off, Cerastes. Or maybe you do, when I'm not looking. It's not like you can't just go back and get another set.

I wonder how this whole Weaver thing is affecting you and yours. At least we know what it feels like, we are used to it, to a great extent; I imagine if it was one of yours, I would be in quite the desperate homicidal rage.

But none of you try anything on the real target. I think you have locked yourself behind this unreadable mask so that we do not see the barely restrained fury that Blizzard makes obvious, that Vild and Fanor and Destrada wear openly, because one of the things you do not do is lose control.

Maybe you can get away with doing that. I have to keep reminding myself that for all our similarities, I do not understand you and I never will... 

...as long as I do not have to become you.

\----

I notice Miranda sitting down next to me, and I wonder.

Do you know what I am? Do you care - do you feel uncomfortable, like the others of your nation, with my presence? I am doing what I should be, for once, in this moment; I had an order and I am watching its fulfillment.

Later, I bring him to your tent, and hear Alessio's question. I cringe inwardly as he fails to meet the challenge. I had such hope for this; that one who had been mortal might finally make the bridge between you and us.

But no; he will not be able to mend any of the damage that I cannot help but think I am responsible, at least in part, for inflicting - in my long association with Flambard - if he cannot make even this basic assurance.

And perhaps it is for the best.

You cannot trust us; not the way that you trust, not the way that you rely on each other, because in any moment we might be different, on any day we might be sent against you - and you can be sure that, if we are smart, if we are doing our job, then we will not warn you until it is too late.

\----

I could become you, Vild.

There have been times when I have almost had people convinced; the butterfly smile, the chitin and the wings; but if I had been you, the one that they sent me off with into the night would not have made it back.

And I can't tell - are you happy?

Of course this season you aren't; how could you be? If you were, I would be quite suspicious. But elsewhere, other times, you model and you demonstrate and you exemplify... but I do not think you ever are.

And I don't understand why you leave me sitting there, as you look out warily with your sword drawn. I am right here. Can't you see me? Do you not consider me a threat?

I have not been this invisible all year.

We can hurt you. We will hurt you, if you keep doing this, if you keep being so incautious; it takes us a long time to get going, yes, but we are the tide of history here now.

It is not true that I wanted to see you so desperate; I wanted to become you. 

But I will settle for supplanting you.


	63. Anchored

"You can't win without giving everything."

She is not having this conversation. She is sprawling contentedly in his bed, letting her thoughts drift into the borderlands of sleep; not leaving here, but venturing out into the anchored, nearby dreaming, contained within this small, fragile body and the link to herself above.

(It would be so strange, so claustrophobic, to be contained entirely in a body, would it not? To have this miniscule entity be the sum of all that you are, until the soul is cut free to fly away to unknown destinations?)

"I had to take the blame - at least some of the blame, at least enough of the blame - for his death, because we needed the other one to be strong, to not be burdened by the guilt so much that he could not function. As long as he can blame me, he can use his anger, he can channel his desire for vengeance; and he did, despite the fact that using that costs him. He was on that path before, but I am not sure he would have walked it without someone else to blame."

She stretches, almost subconsciously; here her form is fixed, but in her dream she has stretched herself up into Apharanta, because she is the form that should be explaining this, much as she has been put aside for now.

(Maybe she should wear Apharanta when she goes to teach her. She would feel strange wearing fur around those who have been shedding theirs; it feels like a claim to belong to something they have left behind.)

"Yes, it costs him. He spent most of the season afterwards, comatose; it powers itself off his life, off his potential, maybe even off his soul. He might not last much longer, but it doesn't matter - he did what he needed to do, he did what was needed - he gave everyone a breathing space so that she could gather her mana in safety, or relative safety at least, so that people could walk in the darkness and speak to each other, without obligation or debt between them like the time they were both behind the wall."

Instinctively careful with her claws, she pulls herself onto her side, without thinking, to accommodate intangible wings.

(A digression; she doesn't leave them, she gets what she wants, she feels protected, she doesn't leave; no, that ends in conflict and battles that should not have been fought, and _she_ is not dealt with and _they_ are judged unworthy and the probabilities tip a little further into darkness.)

"You can't tell whether what you are doing is right unless it hurts. Unless the cost is so terrible that you can barely stand it - how do you know that you aren't just acting in your own self-interest?"

Unconsciously, she pulls herself closer to him, wraps herself lightly around him, her form seeking out the scrap of warmth and life with which she is sleeping.

(Clear as day she can see it in her mind's eye: the white tent well-lit with candles, the priest dragging the heavy body away, one of those moments when she knew that she had acted; but she had done it out of love, not out of duty, and so it all came to nothing.)

"I looked at myself in the mirror and I knew I could make a choice. I could have made several choices, but I did not make the ones that would take me down into the dark. Without that - I could lose the ability to love, or the ability to trust. If I kept both, I knew I would be broken, that I would not survive what was to come."

She shifts against him, silently; flicks an ear out of an uncomfortable position.

(She is standing in a churchyard; she is standing in a church; she is already impervious to his accusations, as he tries to make her feel bad for doing the right thing, for doing the sensible thing, for walking the only path that is open to her.)

"Of course you can't do anything useful without taking risks. But... I do not trust. I predict. It is different."

She is still now, although sometimes the tip of her tail moves of its own accord.

(They sit in the circle and she is surprised how calm she is about it being spoken aloud; not once but twice, not only in the presence of mortals but also in the presence of other angels. And then the fire comes and burns away the rest of her doubts.)

"Why did I do it? Why do I do this? Because of all the people I cannot trust - most of all, I cannot trust myself."


	64. It Could Be Beautiful

_Looking at the road that rises up ahead  
I thought I'd learned a thing or two  
But this is where it's all made new  
and I, I gotta throw my hands up  
cos I can't go on if I can't stop_

\----

She considers making a fresh copy of the letter, when she notices what she's done.

But she doesn't want to think about it any more, and the chances of him recognising the tiny drawing - of linking it to anything - are stupidly remote. 

And it's not as if it would matter even if he did; she hung much more incriminating evidence on the wall at the Golden Moon party and no-one paid the slightest bit of attention.

No-one really cares about the meandering course of what could laughably be called her personal life: and why should they? Everyone has enough real problems to be getting on with.

She waits several days for the reply - almost too long - before she makes the connection...

\----

_Look the leaves are dead  
The moment's gone, there's no surrender  
Forever now unsaid  
The words that might've warmed December_

\----

It is dark.

The candle burns and she writes. She can imagine it all too vividly. Finding the note. The feelings of rejection.

She thinks of telling the story, the one she hasn't told him in full, the one she hasn't told anybody; the one that Romance is probably the last to remember. But there isn't time to do it justice, there isn't a way to say it without looking in his eyes, and she has already waited too long.

She has to be there, and that means she can't be here; and that means she can't spend the rest of the season with him.

And she can't explain it to his face; so she writes, and hopes it will be enough.

\----

_Cos it's all inside your head  
Like fragments of a dream you remember  
So never mind, your clever mind, never mind me_

\----

The world is strange and beautiful and new.

Everywhere, the vines and the bushes colonise every available surface, clambering over each other in their determination to grow and thrive. There would be no need here to shelter or to steal; she could just walk off into these new jungles, and subsist forever on their bounty...

Except of course that everything moving still wants to kill you, she reminded herself.

Still, she sees it in the eyes of the workers and the families that she passes on the road; the dawning realisation of their new freedom. There will be no more hunger. Those who would command them will have to find something better than that basic fear to motivate their obedience.

As she walks, reality takes on other forms, bleeding out into her vision from the contents of her mind: the pathway is overlaid with a country road, so far away, lined with apple trees; with a sighing savannah of wild grains, waving gently in the breeze at the dawn of the world.

\----

_Staring at the ceiling from my bed  
I thought I'd earned a chance or few  
Thought I'd be paid in due_

\----

When she is close, not within the settlement, not within the mist, but certainly close enough to taste the power of it on the breeze: she sits, and she fades. _Not just me alone; not just my authority; this is not something I will do for myself..._

She dresses for war, but not in the way that she would usually do it; no halberd here, no dour beak, no shapeless black minimalism will do for the Weaver's call. 

Instead she paints herself sky blue and shining gold, and her intention to defend and protect forms itself into long knives; no careful line-fighter this, but an ambush predator, bred on surprise and recklessness.

She supposes she should not be surprised that, without particularly forming the conscious intention, Daybreak has scales; and her symbol is traced on her forehead in the bright red of fresh blood.

_Encourage initiations._

And, of course, it is within the cathedral that she returns.

\----

_Time isn't made for waiting  
Past isn't worth debating_

\----

She does not immediately exclaim, "What have you done to yourself?", because with a moment's thought she already knows _what_. So she waits politely, and at a suitable pause in the conversation, she asks the other question - _why_.

"Because I wanted to know what it actually did," he says. "Because I wanted to protect my people."

It is unsettling - in the way that Alfas with bleached fur was, in the way that the Tritoni isn't for some reason; there is no symbol on his forehead but here he is with those similarities, those continuities she has spent so long carefully noting in... others. 

(and trying to suppress in herself)

"She's going to do it too. Now that's a bad idea."

Observing the young lady in question, she can't help but agree. She says, under her breath, "if you are too delicate to be licking envelopes, dear, you should not even think about turning into an eidolon."

The whole evening is strangely frustrating; there is so much here, so much potential in so many directions, but it is all too late. She hears the echo of her voice, trying to find a way to separate the inseparable; "so many children die before they wean," but you have grown up now, haven't you?

Old allegiances, unlikely marriages, a child; if any inheritance can ruin, surely it is this one? Watch him hide from it, overwhelmed, even now. 

(She never finds the moment to ask him if they think it will breed through.)

As she leaves she looks up to the stars, and thinks - because she cannot pray - _Lady Weaver, if anyone can change them... but I doubt even here, even now... there is just so much tradition, and some will cling to it like drowning men; they try so hard but you can see it binding their thoughts behind their eyes..._

\----

_Look the leaves are dead  
The moment's gone, there's no surrender  
Forever now unsaid  
The words that might've warmed December_

\----

It is not at all like the Dream.

Once she dreamed what it would be like, when the end of the world came, and afterwards. It was a desolate landscape, full of orange sand and the stunted remnants of trees. And here and there was an oasis, but not in the way of the Amun-Sa desert; these oases were incongruous palaces, sprawling complexes with strange and unsettling geometries.

There are no strange geometries here - or rather, there are, but they are in the wrong direction.

This place is _more real than the world._

She holds tightly, stubbornly, to who and what she is; she will not be carried away by the song.

It could be excellent. It could be beautiful. It could be everything she ever wanted. It could be an inventive solution to all of the dark places inside of her. She could re-invent herself here; she could wash it all away. She could become mortal, raise a family, learn how to build such things as this, and depart the world to heaven with all the questions of her life fully answered.

She could be loved.

The great Cathedral of Thisbe's Blessing radiates with the Weaver's love for all Her children. It whispers to her: _if you want to come home, I have made a way for you; come to me, shed your brokenness, as I make all things new._

She makes sure she is not observed, and strides out of the cathedral; ducks inside an abandoned lean-to, the remains of someone's life who went further up and further in, or maybe who went out into the world to bring the good news. She lifts the shoulder-pad of her armour and takes her knife and she carves - under the pauldron, into her scaled flesh - a chalice.

"Respect... accrues from... achievement," she hisses.

The pain makes it easier. Easier to think. Easier to sort the ringing in her ears from the thoughts that are genuinely her own. She has come this far intact - she has changed beyond recognition, but she still _remembers_. She will not lose herself at this hurdle.

She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly; 

and returns to the cathedral to report for duty.

\----

_It's all inside your head  
Like fragments of a dream you remember  
So never mind, your clever mind, never mind here_


	65. Can't Even Get Close

_You woke up to hate your life again  
Feeling it's all been said and seen today  
Woke up to fake your smile again  
You're not the one; you're not the one_

\----

She sleeps lightly here. 

She knows that she could fade, and return, rather than sleeping at all. Some days she does; some days she spars with the troops until she bleeds, and has no choice not to return. But she likes to sleep. 

This body is good for it: lithe, flexible, the scales slightly armouring the skin. She sleeps in the leather armour that she has manifested around it, although she cradles the helmet in her hands rather than wearing it overnight.

She knows, from the others, that neither of the armies she is expecting have arrived yet.

So she sleeps lightly here.

\----

_You feel bittersweet when others win  
You'd rather see them fall than gain a thing  
You know you're too afraid to fail  
You're not the one; you're not the one_

\----

Cethlenn has already delivered a blessing this season; Gebrinius stalks the area as a gigantic flaming spider, Pyrachna unleashed.

Amaranth wears the form of an ophidian, and a helmet which covers her forehead, and she does not speak much at all. Mostly, she fights; even though there is no enemy, yet, there are many 'soldiers' who have never previously lifted a weapon in earnest.

She marks those who are too hesitant, too slow, and those who are too reckless, too eager, with her knives; careful not to injure them enough to reduce their effectiveness, but to give them a taste of what they will have to press on through, what they will have to suffer if they are careless.

She lets Daybreak do this. A shell that she has created around herself, again; Daybreak is irrepressible, she takes joy in terrible things, and she loves to see them learn. She barely sees the parade of faces.

All she can see is their faces - her abandoned lover, her determined successor - and she wonders how long _this_ wound will take to heal.

\----

_Maybe the diamonds are not for everyone  
Maybe the lie you live is really all they want  
You stay silent watching all dreams around you fading  
Slowly, slowly, slowly more away_

\----

The first time the armies meet, she stands on the front line.

She is standing with the soldiers that she trained; she is leading by example; she is reminding them of the lessons she has taught them, while they stand nervously and listen to the enemy cry out in pain and fear, as the ballista bolts whisper through the air.

She watches Ayame wrestle with the power of Parnassus' calm gaze, and for a moment, she wishes - although she knows her innermost thoughts have no power - that Ayame would accept his offer, would stand down. 

That good people would not have to kill each other again.

But the moment passes; Ayame shakes herself, as if her fur is damp, and she gives the order to charge, in a high, cold, clear voice that carries across the empty space between them as if it was nothing.

 _For you, and yours._ Yet I stand on the other side of this battlefield, although I pray - as if I could pray - I _hope_ that you do not recognise me. I stand on the other side of this battlefield, and as the lines join, I duck under the first axe-swing, instinctively;

roll, and come up behind your first line, a moment of confusion, knives flashing, a heavily armoured back... stupid, stupid...

one blow sends what is left of me sprawling to the ground

and for all I hope that he did not recognise me... I also hope that he did?

\----

_I can't believe a thing you say  
Can you' The words don't come out easily  
I can't believe that it's all right to cry for what you never lost now  
You're not the one_

\----

She is a long way off the ground, gently prising his arms from their death-grip on the spire. Her instincts are telling her that she should be making reassuring noises - but the remainder of the long years of hiding remind her that she dare not speak.

Gebrinius smoulders gently next to them, on the other side of the spire; his form is good for climbing, but not so good for unfolding a dangerous wemic from what he appears to think is his last chance for safety.

But he resists less than she is expecting, and she carries him like a child up to Gebrinius' back, which he obligingly clings to as they begin the long descent.

There are no words. The power, the feeling up here; it is like they are more than halfway to heaven already, that they only need to let go and the flows of energy will sweep them up and take them there.

But she knows that if she let it, she would simply find herself back where she always did, in the waiting room of the world between; so she descends the spire, and does not let the echo of the great longing linger too visibly behind her eyes.

\----

_Slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly, slowly more away_

\----

She fades as the second army approaches, and returns with scales red as blood, disappearing into the streets, using the cover of the mists.

For a time she is quite successful. There are over a hundred enemy snakes, who she watches fall out of their complex dancing formation - evoking snatches of the jungle, of lies she once told about monkeys, of a butterfly with blood on its claws - into a disorganised charging mob, and in this she joins them. 

No-one comments on an extra red-scaled pair of hands dragging the injured out of the ever-shifting front line, even if her patients were unfortunately losing quite a lot more blood than they might have expected between the front and the busy surgeons...

...then she half-hears an incantation, and feels her nature betraying itself, sees the gentle glow reflected in the eyes of the bloodthirsty horde around her. 

She draws her knives and braces to defend herself, to explain herself, but then she sees the theurge complete a second incantation and her feet guide her away from the voice of their own accord, and the world dissolves in axes and clubs and the cleansing simplicity of pain.

\----

_Maybe the diamonds are not for everyone  
Maybe the lie you live is all they really want  
You stay silent watching all dreams around you fading  
Slowly, slowly, slowly more away_

\----

She thanks the young choirboy who has brought her the letter, and the news, through the mists; introduces him to a family that might look after him; then finds an abandoned corner, and reads.

The kid doesn't know if he's okay. It's not the kid's fault. She finishes reading, pens a reply, finds someone suitably adventurous to take it for her; tells them to find her in the ruins of Androgene, under the sign of a red handkerchief.

But there are still hundreds of the undead infesting the devastated city, and she can't even get close.

She keeps an eye out on the road, and makes sure the girl doesn't get close, either, when she returns with more messages. This is not exactly correspondence that she wants to leave blowing through the streets of the city.

_Maybe It should send you the same message._

Observing the patterns of the mindless, animal-like undead creatures, she manages to raid from the ruins of the Basilica her writing supplies - and, sitting accusingly in their plain brown packages, her freshly printed pamphlets from last season.

They will have to do. If she can't do the things that she wants, at least she can do _something_. 

Even if she is still fairly sure that no-one will believe her.


	66. Eyes

She fades from the outskirts of Androgene and she is in the place between places, which is red and gold and a whirlwind today; a frozen tornado in mid-grab, the detritus of a tormented decade swirling in an impossible dream.

_Provide aid and guidance to Lady Justine of the Wayward Scholars_

_Exalt the name of Sha Al-Tora across the land_

_Find those who seek just vengeance and help them to achieve it_

As late as last season, perhaps, she would not have an imperative that looked like it came from the Teacher. _I killed that part of myself._ But her enthusiasm for talking to random people is limited and her alienation from the Huntress is deeper still.

She is disappointed when it does not take her to a shrine.

Still, she finds the Scholars' camp (looking for him as she crosses the field, always looking for him, although the numbness inside is already trying to convince her that he is dead already), sits down next to Avalanche, smiles at Russet even though he can't see her.

Soon they have Cethlenn join them, and then Samahazai, although he claims he is here on a whim rather than four of them trying to do the same thing. Cethlenn finds someone else to counsel while they wait.

Jennah engages in conversation, but she is looking out across the field, always looking, always looking for him.

Several people come by and ask them if they've heard about the incoming undead attack. Eventually, most of the Waywards pack up and head into the defended Mill'enese camp. Maria, who appears to have that common problem where a Weaverite is in love with a Teacherite, stays for a while and then Jennah directs her to Mill'en's main tent; just afterwards, Jennah meets one of the other scholars in the middle of the field again, and sends them after their stray.

Then she sees her target - her proper target, not him - and whilst it's obvious that Avalanche has got there first, she approaches quietly at the end of their conversation, and they have the age-old interaction; the mortal expresses surprise and confusion that they have been singled out, she asks them what they have been praying about, they tell her some aspect of their concerns, she nods and smiles gently and draws out the conclusion they want to make; this time she has some information for them and lets in a hint of the philosophy she was planning to publish.

And then the undead attack.

She makes some attempt to help, but of course it is all over by the time she gets there; she walks amongst the Confederate lines (looking for him always looking for him) and is asked to inspect the empty Flembic camp for wounded that might have been missed, does so, gets around the back and there is the dragon.

Prismat Agape's soul is gone. They discuss how to dispose of the body, because these undead are the kind that get back up from bodies and a dragon sized one does not sound like an excellent day for anyone. Her suggestion of setting some mokosh on it is not well-received. She informs them of how long it takes to burn even a normal-sized body and how zombies that are on fire do not exactly help. Eventually they agree to drag it off into the wilderness, although exactly how that is supposed to help either is unclear.

Of course, that is when she sees him, when she is staggering shoulder-deep in dead and half-eaten dragon.

She says something inane, something that probably comes across more irritated than concerned, because this whole situation is crazy, because she can't just drop the dragon's tail and run over to him, because despite her best efforts she is _calm_ and _socially responsible_.

But the blankness and the emptiness of the world lifts from her, now she knows that he is still here.

She finds him again, apologises that being covered in dragon blood isn't exactly an attractive look, but it's like he doesn't even see it, doesn't even hear her; he is too possessed by his loss and his anger, with his desire for vengeance.

 _Find those who seek just vengeance and help them to achieve it_.

She does not have to take an imperative to perform it, and there are plenty of undead. Gets stuck in, executes a couple, moving by instinct, trying to keep him from getting too far ahead of the line.

"If you're close to the enemy than Marcus, you're too far forward," she snaps, pointing out the small, skirmishing Mill'enese line they are hunting with, next to the tavern.

He tells her that she is very attractive when she is killing things. She tries to smile, but she can feel that it's more of a snarl as she buries her halberd into the twitching body. _I love being in a battle, the flow and the energy and the reality of it, but I hate killing things, the moment they stop moving - and especially, I hate killing things that fade from the world, as if they never had been..._.

One of them is swinging approximately a small tree trunk. The first blow catches her in the side and she tries to press the attack, but the second catches her in the legs and she is tumbling helplessly to the ground.

_Exalt the name of Sha Al-Tora across the land_

She knows it's a mistake as soon as she takes it; stumbles into the world disoriented, looks around at all the unfamiliar faces she can see, knows what she should be doing...

Can't. Not in this form. Not now. And in the darkness there are more undead, and they are running to meet them; and there is Ragnar and Mardocai and Auriel and Dorian, and she joins the line of them, turning to hit the undead forces in the back;

and as she is on the floor she sees Dorian call the lightning down, because apparently there is not quite enough salt in her wounds just yet.

And then she fades.

She considers lying again, but _encourage initiations_ and she is back in a Weaver shrine; there is still some trace of that, then, even though it is not quite so insistent this time.

They fight the undead some more, and one swings its long staff, cracking against her right hip; she staggers back and someone gets it from the side, and he is not here, so she goes looking for him.

Finds him outside the New World Trading tent, talking to Dorian. Dorian has a mission for him. And... and there is Mardocai, who also has the same thing. She listens carefully, assimilates the contents of their mission, and pretends... and lies... that she is on that, too...

This isn't something she does. But she wants to stay close to him and she wants to keep them away. Mardocai asks them what has been happening in his absence. They tell him.

"Thanks to your _friends_ , the Artemans," she spits, with anger she did not know she was harbouring until the venom and hatred burst through into her tone of voice, the set of her face, the stance of her deliberately small and unthreatening form.

Then they go chasing a shadow that she knows is a lie - but its results are helpful, even if it is not based on the truth, and eventually she learns enough background to start cleaning up after the deleterious effects of the parts that are lies.

"It's good to see him being devout," someone says to her - but she can't remember if it was Brent or Tarn.

"The Midwife basically teaches that the world is pain."

She looks away so that she doesn't laugh. Reality is pain; the only way not to suffer is to not exist; but she is not ready for that, not yet, maybe not ever.

And they go from priest to priest, and she sits beside the one that she saved the life of last season, whose name she still does not know, and she looks at the other member of his tribe and tries to work out if it is the right one; he slips out of the tent sideways and she follows him, but he is gone into the night, obviously not expecting her to follow.

And now someone is singing The Fish Quota.

She stares at the young bard and completely forgets to listen to the interesting conversations around her for a moment; Leticia is sitting in a tent in the Flembic camp, hat carefully covering her forehead, listening to their meeting, eating their Flembic-colours battenburg...

The start and the end of this short chapter in a long life, reaching around to bite its own tail, reminding her that _things that are remembered are not truly lost_.

And then she is outside and watching the young avian hold the telescope up for Piper Green to look through, and Roberto explains the secrets of the stars.

She tells Roberto of the Clever Ones, of the pacts that gathered their collections and then retreated from the world. She wonders, idly, if he could find a particular symbol; but he says there are so many millions that it would take longer than he would want to spend. He gazes at her forehead, and says something to his companion - when he thinks she isn't listening - about how he needs access to his notes 'to do anything with it'.

There is something chilling about the focussed curiosity in those searching eyes.

Roberto asks her how she is with multidimensional theory, and she explains how she has found it difficult to explain to others, and starts to explain how the Dream is sideways as well as upwards from the world, but he is too wrapped up in his own genius.

But she keeps an eye on John Essen through the open tent doors, and she returns to sit by him.

Then he is talking to Kala and it is definitely the right one this time; she follows Mowak out into the darkness, for the conversation that he insisted that they have. And she is right; she reveals that she knows where he began but it is strangely unsatisfying, and as advertised, she doesn't really have anything to give him.

He is not Carlito Rossini any more, any more than she is the Lady Leticia D'Urbey; and they do not talk about Romance; it seems irrelevant, somehow, under the gaze of the stars.

(which one are you? which one are you and yours, retreated into yourselves, so far away and yet right here, shining into my eyes?)

And then there is the SNWT tent, and eyeballs, and banter, and Piper and her Gerosan, but eventually it dwindles to Mardocai saying "I'll pretend I haven't heard that" and he seems to be determined to act out and push his luck, so she drags him off.

"It's very hard to talk to Mardocai without wanting to hit him," she admits as they walk away.


	67. Doing Something

_Aid and assist Lothar Erhard in his tasks_

Lothar is standing in the entrance to the Flembic camp; she warns him of the influx of assistance he will have in a minute, by way of offering him her own. He sets her a task that he thinks is difficult, but she's fairly sure she knows the right people to point in the right directions, so she heads off again; and it gives her an excuse to ask about the location of Essen, as well as Benedict.

While she's waiting to see if they mysteriously turn up, Hessonite is there; she tells her that the thing that Lothar is up to is just a ritual to take some people back to the KW, a disappointing conclusion to him being 'up to something'. Then Benedict, even more distinctive than ever, is over there, and she can discharge her duty; and then she finds Essen.

\----

It is crowded in the place between places when she returns - and there is an unexpected visitor.

Everyone's best friend - Mr Dandy.

He appears, if it is possible, to be even more psychotic than usual.

Dandy thinks that he has got hold of Auriel's true name, and that it is amusing to try to get a rise out of him by using it in conversation, while berating the assembled for not doing their jobs properly - for pursuing their own agendas, rather than staying in the Maelstrom until the gods actually have something useful for them to do.

More interestingly, Sophia stands behind and to the side of Auriel, her skin and form dark and her face in a kind of foliage camouflage pattern; probably fairly good for moving through the woods at night in, she guesses.

Dandy sounds superficially like he might be interesting, but in fact he is just being aggressively wrong; to the amusement of all and sundry as he mistakes Ragnar - here because Auriel pacted him to protect his soul from the undead assault, still here because he is presumably enjoying the scenery - for another eidolon.

She is about to move on when Mardocai decides that he should thank her, for looking after his church while he was gallivanting around in the Known World. She gives him a potted history of how everyone died and most of them had their souls eaten, and he gives her some mystical bullshit about how surely the Merchant must have protected their souls anyway.

He tells her not to pay so much attention to mortal 'science' - he tells her that angels are creatures of faith.

She does not laugh in his face. (She is still a little off balance, to tell the truth, from Dandy's verbiage; not its content, but from watching the two of them she is fairly sure that is at least very _close_ to Auriel's true name, and that makes her immensely uncomfortable.)

But she does say something about how they will have to agree to disagree on that one, and departs into the world once more.

\----

_Aid and assist Lothar Erhard in his tasks_

It amuses her to watch Axinita spitting feathers - metaphorically, of course - over something Auriel has done.

Apparently he didn't think to inform her that he was pacting Ragnar.

On out into the night, through the darkness, looking for a target, or a use, or an item of interest; Veritas is attached to Russet now, and she sees Stuart Marshall - he'll want to know, and it is always beneficial to make herself useful and interesting to him.

He's not quite as good an attractor as Jason James was, but he will have to do in his absence.

Stuart is indeed interested in Mr Dandy's recent appearance in the Maelstrom pocket; words circle upwards like smoke in the flickering firelight, the community of Amun-Sa huddling on the doorstep of Mill'en, the evening now quiet and subdued; and her target is here, but he has nothing to detain her at this hour.

\----

Walk out into the sunrise, and fade with the dawn; the eye of the storm is picking up and floating away with all of the things we have made here together, and soon we will have to anchor it if we want to keep it at all.

She wonders where they get these strange bouts of morality from; Opochtli is sitting there white-dressed and human-faced in the pocket as if he can be cleansed of the things he has done in the name of the gods merely by rejecting them. He talks about suicide. After a lifetime, he says, of course; but the thing about lifetimes is, they do rather vary in length...

If she can find one, she decides, she will give him what he thinks he wants.

_Exalt the name of Sha Al-Tora across the lands_

It's just a familiar face, just a path down into reality. She has no intention of following her orders this morning. Outside Sacuza New World Trading, she finds the random Mill'enese gentleman who would be an angel, and the one who would make him thus; she follows him, as he might lead her to a source that can solve Opochtli's problem - or at least, solve the problem that is Opochtli, if you want to look at it that way.

Drifting over towards the Scholars' tent, potions and transactions drift between chance meetings; one of the components that Opochtli does not have, Caustic Bile, seems to be significantly rarer than the teeth of avians.

While Stephan and Lazy Unicorn dance their trading dance on the green grass between Mill'en and the Wayward Scholars, a familiar orange hovers into view; Hessonite thinks that Opochtli is essentially irrelevant to her interests. She spirals away with a description of Roberto that unfortunately matches rather too many random blue avians with yellow beaks.

A routine circuit does not end well. In sight of home - halfway across the front entrance of the Confederacy camp, towards Sacuza New World Trading - Rakshasa decides to take issue with her face.

She thinks, afterwards, of all the useful things she could have said. If she had been Daybreak, she would have asked him why - if she was being banished from the camp for 'aiding their enemies' on account of her work at the Cathedral - it was still the case that Benedict, who had supplied the troops that had fought against them, was allowed to walk freely therein?

But Jennah does not cause trouble, so she drifts out of the camp - as far as the gateway, to begin with, because there is Sha Al-Tora glowing with the light of a thousand diamonds, and she is drawn to her like any butterfly to the flame.

Sha is wiser than Jennah, and takes her safely off towards the Flembic camp. Maybe she truly was just about to go there anyway.

Dissolve into the easy familiarity of a place that accepts her - that she doesn't have to fight for every step, even though the Flambard she once knew would have a very different reaction to the skin that she is wearing. Isobel needs an alchemist in the ubiquitous hunt for race change potions, although this one is an attempt to solve a poisoning; she finds Filia effortlessly, brings them both together. 

Information sleets through the air - here is the Master of Magic, here is the structure that will channel the magic that will guide these people home - here is how it regrows when the Confederacy destroy it, out of ignorance and fear, because they will not listen and cannot be told.

And here he is, dosed up on Seraph's Tear - they call it that, she thinks, because the angels mourn that it does not work on them - and he sits down next to her for a precious moment. She explains the events of the morning, that she can't trivially get back into the Confederacy camp; he asks her what she thinks, now, both personally and professionally, about him turning into an eidolon.

She tells him that, as an eidolon, she still thinks it is a terrible idea; and that as a person, she does not want to lose him.

And then he has to head off about his business, back where she can't follow without causing trouble - and Jennah does not cause trouble, not directly, not to people's faces - but he promises her that this evening he will find her and he will sneak her back into camp, and they can just drink, and enjoy themselves, and _be_.

She takes up a corner in the place where everything is happening; where on the other side of the tent, along the same edge, the Master of Magic is performing his continual rituals to empower the people of Flambard. And here, Benediction is talking to Cyril Grey, patiently explaining that he should be _doing something _, drawing out of him that he does in fact have a list, and so why are those people still on the list, and not bleeding on the floor right now?__

__He claims that he can't recognise them, so she removes that excuse; she can recognise them. Maybe she can be useful. As he recites the list, she sees Gaelle's face in her mind's eye, apologising for Rakshasa cutting her down, leading Mill'en to the Freiboden camp in Waspor's name; and this season again, eyes closed and determined behind her handmaiden Ayame._ _

__But Gaelle is useful, so she says nothing._ _

__More potions; potions to turn the Tritoni human, if they want, to hide them from their enemies ready for another strike. Cyril makes noises about organising a picnic. Kettering sits in the middle of the room and laments how strange it is, not to be governor any more, not to have a queue of people waiting to see him._ _

__And the Huntress church does organise a picnic. As she watches them spread out through the trees, Jennah thinks, _good_ \- the only way that this large and this loud a group of people will catch anyone is to get separated, is to make them think they are in with a chance._ _

__So she spreads out and she remembers to look up, because the ones they are hunting have wings, and she floats through the woods in the middle of a skein of people, senses alert in every direction, ready to relay any suspicious noises or rally them to the isolated point that someone thought they could swoop upon._ _

__But there is no-one worth hunting in the woods, so eventually their waveform collapses back into a procession into camp once more._ _

__Kylerean is sitting outside, in the middle of the camp, talking to Isobel._ _

__There is a weird and marked lack of paranoia about the whole proceedings; it seems very alien, compared to the Confederate habits of moving in packs and standing a real gate guard; but even with the Lower City out of camp, she can feel the gentle surveillance that would pull together swiftly against a threat._ _

__The Flembic just don't feel the need to make their security so _obvious_._ _

__Another visit by the Solarians, whose axolotl guards had kept Isobel hiding in the Green Tent last time; this time it is clear they are very different axolotl to those who covet Thisbe's diamond, and they are formally introduced to Kylerean, and talk in a big ball in the middle of the Flembic camp; no corners of tents here, everyone knows that the correct place for meetings is right out in the open where you can see who might be hovering in the corner and listening._ _

__But she is accepted here, and so she hovers in the corner, and listens._ _

__Then a pale-scaled snake and some random human get their turn to talk to Kylerean, but they do not talk - or at least, they do not talk with words. The ophidian attempts to talk with his knife instead, but he has not learned from previous attempts. The blade skitters off the concealed armour that Kylerean is sensibly wearing, and very shortly the net closes on both of them._ _

__She stands between the two downed bodies and ensures no-one executes them until someone is found to interrogate them; Caterina Flambardi steps forwards with steel in her eyes and she yields the ophidian body to her, the 'human' already having begun to discorporate._ _

__Lothar appears in the confusion, charging down the field to help take out the ophidian, and tells her to find out what she can about the intentions of the Woven Braid with regard to Gaia's offer of sanctuary, so she stalks Drago back into the Green Tent._ _

__There, Jan and Drago discuss in lowered voices - but are quite happy for her to drift right up to them, into earshot - the seven magma krakens that Kylerean has summoned, along with every other gribbly creature he could dredge out of his extensive imagination and bring to life with the flows of magic, to lay waste to the area once the Flembic are all safely away back home._ _

__Drift out, slightly, and find Marcus and Sha once again; they are, helpfully, discussing Gaia's offer of sanctuary - or, at least, Marcus is being rather dismissive of an offer that would render Amun-Sa helpless by forcing them to lay down their arms in return for Gaia's dubious protective abilities being exercised on their behalf._ _

__Sha is on the verge of tears. She wants to rescue her children, to take her kittens and Noah's kittens and the innocent people of Amun-Sa-Over-Ocean and leave this paradise that she has created - this paradise full of sharp teeth and vicious claws, which is set to continue to overturn itself in blood and fire - but they are too far away, they are too far away from the gate which will open here and nowhere else at seven o'clock this evening._ _

__Jennah tries to make some suggestions, but she knows it is hopeless. Even if the shaman who could fly his troops on raven's wings to New Bantustan would consent to help them - the only way she knows that mortal creatures have travelled so far and so fast in so short a time - she is not convinced they could get someone there to collect them and someone back; she suggests sending Riddl, who can manifest where he pleases; but even if he took the fastest form he could to carry them, it is a very long way in the physical world, and in any case Sha does not trust an eidolon's form with so many squirming kittens._ _

__She mentions the shaman, and Sha sweeps out of the tent to find them, saying that she must at least try; she catches Marcus for a moment, who looks terrified at the prospect, and reassures him that she thinks they are probably nowhere to be found._ _

__Finally, she pays attention to the little poisoning drama, where William Fitzsimmons - she'd seen him at a Weaver meeting before, had classified him as probably a stealth Jaguarite, but maybe he was in fact just a really _enthusiastic_ devotee of the Lover - ironically, she'd never really understood that aspect of the Weaver. What did the physical act of love have to do with creativity? _ _

__Usually when they got combined, things just went embarrassingly wrong._ _

__It looks like Bella is fond of him, though, and so they're pulling out all the stops; they've got Detail here to do a supplication, they're looking for an eidolon potion after they gave up on the ophidian potion idea, and possibly they can't find either of them. There doesn't seem to be much point, but Amaranth can't help trying to be helpful; she explains the mechanics of the eidolon potion and how providing it to people who aren't massively blessed is just creating Fallen if you don't have them pacted to someone first._ _

__Naturally, no-one listens; apparently it's more important that he's still devoted when it happens, as if this isn't just a last-ditch attempt to save his life rather than a considered decision that he should become immortal._ _

__Fortunately, there is soon a distraction. Raoul Fremont and Stuart Marshall nosing around the camp, asking about the magma that some of their telluric experts have detected rising beneath the area. She watches everyone lie to their faces and chase them away from the important discussions, and heads out to catch Stuart on his own and fill him in._ _

__A quick chat becomes a longer exchange of information, and they take up some space in an empty tent, trying to build a coherent picture of the current incoming threats to the area - and of who needs to be told and who needs to be carefully not told, and of who is leaving the area how, and of who is planning to destroy what in the near future._ _

__It is all very civilised. The butler belonging to whoever actually owns this tent shows back up and offers them refreshments; with unconscious politeness, she takes a cupcake when they are proffered._ _

__Only a few moments later does she look at it..._ _

__The confection is topped with a sparkling purple butterfly._ _

__Jennah consumes its wings with more than quite the necessary quantity of appreciation, while she discusses how she has totally outstayed her usefulness in this area - how she thinks pretty much all of them have - and now she's pretty much just waiting to see what happens, because she has burnt all her bridges and used up all her influence and all that is left is to see how the dice land._ _

__Cyril and the Flembic remnants stride in, sit down, and start talking business. They are pretty serious. Stuart offers to leave, but Cyril looks at the pair of them, and says that they can stay if they feel like it._ _

__(gods how she has missed being _accepted_ )_ _

__And now Cyril is asserting his authority as a White Jacket, and giving an ultimatum to those who are staying; they can go and be part of the Confederacy, or they can still be Flembic - but with the proviso that all Flembic will be under his absolute command, and he will be taking them on a White Jacket mission to gather civilians from the clutches of Gaia and find a way back to the Known World for them._ _

__Cadence says she is not going to join the Confederacy or the priority mission to save civilians; she wants to follow Cyril, but she knows the Huntress has unfinished business at the festival and Cyril plans to leave tonight. So the group splits into three; those who are going to follow Cadence and go Huntressing, those who are going to join the Confederacy ('led' by Lord Drane Haversham), and those who are going to go back to New Terino with Cyril._ _

__Benediction shows up briefly, hovers in the doorway, and then makes to leave; Amaranth follows to ask after the human transform potions; Benediction reveals that he's taken one of them by pushing up his headscarf, because he thinks he should only kill mortals if he has a chance to be killed by them in turn._ _

__He asks her not to tell anyone, as he's worried he might get targetted for unrelated reasons if it's known he's mortal at the moment._ _

__She doesn't understand, but she does, but she doesn't; she can see how she might do something like this, but for very different reasons. But it is better this way. If you have faith, better to be a mortal; if she had faith, if she had the faith she had toyed with over the many years, she would be searching harder for a solution for herself - she would have taken the Weaver's offer, over at the cathedral at Brigadoom, and fulfilled the purpose... maybe not of _her_ life, but of _a_ life, at least._ _

__She promises that she will not tell anyone, and for once she keeps such a promise - although, she suspects, mostly because it does not become advantageous for her at any time to break it._ _

__There is a big ceremony just finishing where those who are leaving take their leave from those who are staying, and Caterina makes a big speech. It is surprisingly emotional. For a moment she thinks: should I go with them? These are the people that accept her; this is the place where she is at home; there will be things to do to support them, where they are going._ _

__No._ _

__She has come here and she has changed; _being in the world means pain, along with all the other beautiful and terrible things;_ and she is addicted to the world._ _

__Even though it will mean her death. Even though there are and there will continue to be risks here that are unheard of in the world from which she came. Even though it will mean watching him die, rather than abandoning him; even though she does not know which option is 'right', which way the gods would have her choose, if they were coherent enough to give their opinions._ _

__She is distracted for a moment by Lothar; he has taken some kind of shapeshifter potion, Filia eventually gets around to explaining, and is mostly using it to decorate himself._ _

__But suddenly it is time, and Amaranth heads over to watch the leavers go._ _

__The White Wolves are there to jeer them off, telling them how much it is good riddance that they are fleeing; Claw of the Gods gets close to the portal, makes some kind of distraction, but no-one seriously attempts to disrupt the proceedings. She tries to watch them, the people that she had been working with, but she can barely tell one from another any more._ _

__They are just individuals; they are just mortals, marching out of her life just as surely as countless others who have died before them, leaving to a destination no less incomprehensible to her now than the heavens that the mortals supposedly attain upon their deaths._ _

__Lothar breaks off at the last moment; Essen is also here watching and arranges some people to go after Lothar to make sure he's not going to break, having just seen his wife off to safety and abandoned her; remembering, he says, how it was to see off his own wife and children on a boat he knew he would not be able to follow._ _

__But he makes no move to head through the portal either._ _

__Then suddenly she is dragged back into the moment; she sees Drago and Jan having an urgent whispered conversation in the vicinity of Axinita and Eikon, and it seems important. They split up and she tells Essen to follow Jan (who appears to be heading to the Confederacy camp - where she might be able to go, but certainly not quietly, and with a greater chance of losing him in the confrontation) while she follows Drago._ _

__Drago checks the small Weaver shrine in the Flembic camp. There is some excitement, because it looks like Mica has successfully become an angel of the Teacher. It isn't that surprising, she supposes. At least he doesn't have the... history... of Auriel, even though she suspects the latter's influence is going to make him pretty unbearable, even so._ _

__Then Drago heads back to the ritual site to confirm his suspicions - Kylerean Harkyn leaving through the portal has restored power to all the potential Masters of Magic that were chasing him, rather than locking the permission list. Which means that Marcus of the Crew of the Equinox will become the new Master of Magic, as the other two candidates - Drago and Jan - have only just got to his level this season, and so cannot cast the final ritual even if they did have the mana._ _

__While Drago investigates, Amaranth casts a wary gaze on the excellently constituted Ophidian murder squad which has assembled under the direction of Vild in their vicinity. She instructs Drago to walk quietly away and not look in their direction; perhaps they can still get out of this; and indeed it turns out that they can._ _

__There is some vague attempt to do information damage control - Amaranth tells Eikon what has happened, tries to work out who knows - but there is essentially no hope. The Spine are planning something interesting to do with Khaniel; Auriel is not particularly interested in the imminent undoing of all they have worked for, as he has those stars in his eyes; he claims that they might redeem a Fallen in the next half an hour, and that is much more important than anything else they could be doing._ _

__She quickly assesses her options. There appears to be no good that she can do about the incoming devastation, and plenty of harm that she could do by running around attempting to do something, anything. So she tags along with the Spine of the World, off the festival field, to fetch Khaniel._ _

__They walk back on the field, and someone who looks a lot like Jacob Arteman asks some 'innocuous' questions as a 'random gormless human passer-by' about whether Kylerean Harkyn leaving has unlocked magic. Amaranth lies fluently to him, not that she thinks it will help; pretending that Kylerean has faked his departure, that he would not be that stupid. Jacob follows them to the Flembic camp, but there is some kind of native attack in progress; apparently Caterina Flambardi is being assassinated._ _

__When she gets her bearings again, after everyone runs off in several directions, Amaranth finds Khaniel round the back of the tent that Caterina was in, talking intently to Tula, head to head. Seeing Axinita a little way further forwards, Amaranth drags Khaniel away from his little private discussion and reunites the priest and the demon; but then she turns away for three seconds, to try to explain what is going on to someone, and when she looks back they have both gone._ _

__She sees what she thinks is Mowak, who she wants to update on the magma kraken, but as soon as she has his attention it is obviously some other ophidian of the same tribe wearing exactly the same turban arrangement; so she claims she was looking for one with a flat face, mistaken identity, without revealing who she was looking for._ _

__Tarn then marches out of the mess, so she follows him, devoid of anything better to do; everything she does on her own initiative inevitably screws up as always, and she has no interest in returning to the Maelstrom or exalting the name of Sha Al-Tora - the entire fucking world is doing that just fine, as the fruit trees bloom around them._ _

__He accretes half the Long Grass Tribe as he walks, although still no Mowak, and declares that everyone should eat before the inevitable fighting starts. After a quick exit from a tent that is surprisingly full of the Horde of He Who Will Devour The Sun - who neither swordsman or angel are particularly popular with, Amaranth suspects, after killing a good number of them at Brigadoom - they find somewhere quiet to gather some food and their thoughts._ _

__When they come out it is dark, and apparently - according to more ophidians - 'everything is going to shit'. But it just looks like some kind of big repeated wave attack with firebreathing gribblies throwing themselves against the Confederate lines, which can totally take it._ _

__Amaranth finds Essen again briefly, but he's heading off to pray; he says that if he's going to pact to her (before taking the eidolon potion) he'll want her true name as well; she tells him that she would have expected him to ask (and frankly, you know, she wants an excuse; she wants to live dangerously); he says that conversation was much easier than he expected; she decides it's about time to discorporate._ _

__There's some random Fallen with a scheme involving using Mica's ability to make golems to manufacture souls no-one cares about for Fallen to eat, who appears to be successfully monopolising everyone's attention._ _

__Samahazai wants to talk about how the world is going to shit because of the master of magic changeover, but Amaranth isn't really interested; she's made her peace with the way everything is going to end in fire and death for a few hundred years. But she still feels personally responsible for the happiness of those few angels she can actually stand the company of, so she makes some vague attempt to cheer him up anyway. He doesn't seem to need it too much; he's still fixated on Lothar and happy to go out and help him for as long as he lasts, and that should keep him for the immediate future._ _

__She goes back to the main area and listens to the Fallen being immune to reason for a while, then she sees Auriel and Samahazai talking and eventually puts together the boldness to go and attempt to append to the conversation._ _

__"Is this a private doom and gloom session or can anyone join in?"_ _

__Auriel is basically bitching about how Mica gets to be devoted and he doesn't, so she passes on the rumour that one of the Jade Lotus had taken the potion and then attempted to lead a supplication and that Hadn't Gone Well, and Auriel admits that Mica is carefully not using his devotion anyway._ _

__She heads further in and considers the words of the gods, but there's nothing new; she considers 'Aid the freed slaves of Havocstan in seeking true justice from their former slavers' but she decides that it is much less of a lie to take 'Encourage initiations' as her intention is to find Essen._ _

__But she hasn't quite aligned herself with the imperative when she spots Mardocai, and feels the need to hassle him about whether true justice had in fact already been found for the slaves (he seemed to think it had and people just hadn't prayed enough); and then Khaniel is regaling the assembled (slowly, with interruptions) about the botched attempt to redeem him and she wants to listen._ _

__Then Sophia is telling her life story._ _

__It is, Amaranth reflects, rather like her own, except Sophia took the offer and fell with her friends. She finds it kind of reassuring to think that she might have survived so well, although Sophia's pact ended how she had somewhat expected her own potential plan to; they dissolved, lost each other, and Sophia ended up alone in any case, hiding and hating the gods._ _

__Sophia had to score the occasional soul to get back out again, so she convinced mortals that oblivion - being eaten by her - was better than getting stuck with a god. It wasn't a bad line, Amaranth supposed, but Sophia really appeared to believe it. While the line that the gods were not worthy of collecting souls had a certain logic to it, the fate of the souls themselves... well, it seemed better to be subsumed into a consensus that went on affecting the world than to be gone forever, if there was one that you could even slightly agree with. Those who couldn't, yes; but they are few and far between._ _

__Sophia also notes that she was shouting her truename quite a lot while on Waspor's Kiss and that Cethlenn knows it; automatically, before she realises that she is doing it, Amaranth goes "ohh," like she gets it. She doesn't, of course. She wasn't actually there for any of the shouting, only for the aftermath of one of the scenes._ _

__Cethlenn attempts to taunt Samahazai with the supposedly shared secret, chanting "We know a thing that you don't know!", because this is the level, thinks Amaranth, that we have descended to, this is what we do to keep the knowledge of our insurmountable failure away._ _

__Amaranth feels like she has to follow that story, or at least advance the conversation, and so she says:_ _

__"Of course, the only reason that I am not Fallen is that I have always been too much of a coward."_ _

__At first there is the reflexive shocked reaction from Cethlenn and Samahazai - the face that they have to put on - but she has gambled there is another face behind that, and as they realise that no-one else is listening, their surprise softens, and then Samahazai... Samahazai agrees._ _

__And he tells his story; about how he had a whole city of a thousand souls pacted to him, ready to go, to defend it against an incoming Fallen; but he hesitated, and the city was lost, and he sent on all the souls._ _

__And then Cethlenn; Cethlenn tells them not of a moment where she would have Fallen, but that she loathes the gods, that she serves them only because they let her help mortals, who she does care about._ _

___There is not one of us who is not broken._ _ _

__But she prefers these broken ones to the ones who have limited themselves; those who carved out the parts of themselves that could think clearly, that could analyse the world, that could take the weight of seeing the consequences of their actions and accept the capriciousness of the gods, the forces of nature that propel them, as a bargain against the things they could do in their wake._ _

__Sophia says that she's going to get pacted to Claw - someone who isn't compelled to fight her - and disappear again, run bars, just live and not bother anyone; that being in the pocket is even worse with Dandy around - "He makes me quiet, and very few things make me quiet; he just twists the words of everyone around him to make him always right, he picks up on anything you say."_ _

__Of course, then Dandy graces us with his presence briefly - and swiftly proves her point - before moving on._ _

__The conversation seems to have wound down, so Amaranth finally feels guilty enough for spending the evening in the pocket and actually goes out to Encourage Initiations, by which she entirely intends 'find Essen and ensure everyone in the vicinity is righteously intoxicated'._ _

__But she is not thinking clearly enough to change her form, and lands in the abandoned Flembic camp as Jennah, whose silhouette is probably still recognisable to the only camp capable of fielding an actual sodding gate guard._ _

__So she spends a while with an abandoned lantern looking for abandoned loot, shielding the harsh lantern light with her halberd to make the best illumination._ _

__In the first tent, and the second, and the third, there is nothing left; not even cake._ _

__There is a surprising comfort in the darkness and the silence, in the abandoned structures once so full of life. In the little details of banners and tables and teacups, of jackets and bags and abandoned papers. She expects there to be quite a lot of wandering through abandoned ruins in her proximate future... and finds the idea strangely satisfying._ _

__The artifacts of the world are so beautiful without their mortal inhabitants cluttering them up, swarming around them, demanding attention and planning and foresight. She feels like she could wander through dead cities forever, and never tire of the strange liminal feeling that emanates from every corner of the abandoned Flembic camp._ _

__Then she meets some ophidians, heading down the side of the Flembic camp, one of which she recognises as Xanthan. There's an uneasy standoff. She says hi and they say hi. They notice she's an eidolon. They lose interest. They're blatantly a murder squad._ _

__Then Mardocai appears in the Huntress hallow, so she tells him that the Bendul-Dolum sacrifice squad just went thataway into the woods, and that she's cleared half the camp but there's another half still to go; he wanders off somewhere, not towards either clear objective, not feeling the need to tell her his business. She expects he won't even pass on the information. But better to seem useful and busy._ _

__She half-heartedly checks the other half of the camp, the spell broken, although she finally finds some cake (well, rocky roads, anyway) - and the ship hat, which she considers rescuing, but where would she rescue it to?_ _

__And she finds one person who'd gone back for their stuff - one of the Famous Grouse lot. She considers telling him that he's stupid, but she considers that it will do no good whatsoever; either he knows or he's not going to listen to her when she says it. He is going back for some other physical item when she leaves the camp and heads towards the tavern. There is no sound of conflict, but she does not see him again._ _

__The tavern does not contain Essen. It does, however, contain Brent, Hessonite and Hessonite's sister, who are interesting enough in their own right for her to attach herself to their little party._ _

__Together, they head back out to the abandoned Flembic camp, scare off one unlucky looter - or possibly lucky, given their next encounter. They meet Kirril and Dram and Rakshasa, who are also out looting. They exchange friendly looting tips._ _

__Amaranth and Brent agree when they've gone that it's a pity that this squad couldn't possibly have taken that one, because Rakshasa normally hunts with much larger packs and eliminating him would solve a lot of problems._ _

__The mortals refuse to check out a tent that has got a light on, so Amaranth does; it's empty. They're bored and head back to camp, but now Opochtli and Fire are here, watching the woods in the direction that the Bendul-Dolum lot went and apparently gribblies have been coming out of._ _

__They pace up and down a bit, say hi to some murder squads, are joined by Veritas; Opochtli recounts the fight earlier, against the creatures which were apparently fire breathers, and might in fact have been the magma krakens expected. Someone comes out of the Confederacy lines and tells them they're making the lines twitchy, to which the response is essentially 'good, fuck 'em, they should be twitchy'._ _

__There is idle speculation about the well-defendedness or otherwise of various groups; Veritas goes to investigate a Suspicious Tent and some Suspicious People but nothing interesting occurs; the unprotected-looking fire on the woods side of the confed camp is apparently ghost-fenced._ _

__Eventually even Veritas gets bored._ _

__Back in the place between places, Khaniel finally gets to the end of his tale - Axinita and Auriel took him to the Confederacy camp, picking up the Inquisitor, then found a tent and Axinita started to ask him questions about being redeemed; but there were then the line attacks which distracted everyone repeatedly, so they went and wandered around in the lines for a while; Khaniel offered to heal a few people, Axinita decided he was too much of a liability and dropped him, and now he's properly stuck again because she'd insisted on excruciating him first._ _

__Then Amaranth heads out on "Encourage the faithful to rejoice in the strength of their communities", determined to just walk into the Confederacy camp; she's identified a route through the back that she's pretty sure they aren't defending, right into the area she wants. She gets sent to the Amun-Sa tent anyhow, and walks along the back of the Confederacy's camp in the darkness until she can duck into Sacuza New World Trading._ _

__There's no Essen there either, but there is Auriel having the other half of the Khaniel conversation with Stuart Marshall - and Lode, who's turned into a wemic again._ _

__She asks him, somewhat incredulously, how he could possibly have thought that excruciating and discorporating Khaniel was a good idea; he says he was sure Khaniel would have a backup plan and "did he think he was going to be redeemed straight away?"_ _

__Exasperated, Amaranth points out that any backup plan - at this stage, without rituals - would require the burning of souls - and, you know, let's get back to the part where you could think _that could possibly be a good idea_ , because usually that's _considered pretty bad_? _ _

__But no-one seems to care, and she isn't really sure why she cares so much. The conversation stalls; Auriel discorporates; and she walks out into the night again._ _

__The night is clean and clear. The cold night air washes over her. The stars shine down. _Which one of them is you?_ She knows Essen has probably gone to sleep. That she will not find him. But she keeps walking, great circles around the deserted camps, in any case; hoping, against all reason, that he might be around the next corner._ _

__Dawn begins to break._ _

___This is bullshit._ _ _

__In one swift motion, using her own clawed hands, Daybreak slits Jennah's throat and feels the last of her mawkish, self-indulgent grief drip into the ground as she stumbles to her knees and fades._ _

___Encourage initiations_ _ _

__Daybreak heads straight for the top floor of the tavern, to watch the entire fucking field so that she can definitely intercept Essen when he finally has the decency to wake up and walk across the field in an obvious fashion._ _

__Some incredibly suspicious characters are practicing their archery by shooting their friend who has a shield; one of the incredibly suspicious characters has entirely covered his face. She expects they're probably the Crew of the Equinox. Good luck to them; she's probably wrong and it's not like anyone would listen to her who would do anything about it._ _

__Tarn shows up and has a look out too, and together they conclude that absolutely nothing is fucking happening._ _

__Finally Essen shows up, and Daybreak swoops down to attach herself to his side; they stroll into the Confederacy camp with no problems whatsoever. It's unclear whether this is because the gate guard are too stupid to notice an eidolon in a different form or whether they have totally forgotten about Rakshasa's little outburst in the first place._ _

__Stefan is going to take the fucking stupid potion, so there is a bunch of kerfuffle; while Essen tries to organise a supplication, Daybreak perches in the Sacuza New World Trading tent, making occasional offhand sarcastic contributions to the various conversations that come and go._ _

__The supplication goes ahead; Stephan dies; and suddenly it's Piper's wedding._ _

__So Daybreak follows Dorian and stands in the corner of the Gerosan shrine while Piper and Alessio have an incredibly dull marriage ceremony. She ducks out as soon as possible - there's nothing useful to be _done_ here. Dorian advises her to go and get an anti-mortal-wound talisman out of New World Trading's stocks, because it will let her take more mortal wounds from people; she hasn't the heart to tell him that precisely zero people ever have ever trusted her with their true name for this purpose, but she picks up the talisman anyway, and helps them sort out the useful stuff (vineweed root, flame, catamite, swamp fever) from their drug stash._ _

__Everyone is mobbing up for some kind of native attack. They head out and talk to the Inquisitor a bit; Essen appears to be trying to proposition her for a threesome later. The Inquisitor has a new small blonde female hanger-on, who is apparently possibly a cultist, and possibly a defector from the undead who came to tell her about rituals the undead were doing. More importantly, the new hanger-on is also a competent surgeon and pistoleer._ _

__Then Essen and Piper have a brief friendly debate about how wrong Piper thinks it is for him to be screwing people not of his own species, while Daybreak hovers in the vicinity like a shadow and an object lesson._ _

__Then she gets her first break; a dryad explaining that he was spying on the southern tribes and they have some kind of monolith in the woods that is going to kill all the Northern faithful. Daybreak looks around for the few useful people she has left, and finds Brent and Hessonite out front, who already have this information from elsewhere and are telling Mardocai; instead of going back into the camp and spreading the information, however, Mardocai runs off to join the accumulon - an accumulation of eidolons - by the entrance to the woods._ _

__Then Brent asks Daybreak to go and be the third confirmation that Auriel needs before he believes anything, so she feels sufficiently armed with purpose to join the accumulon, and gives them the overheard information from the dryad._ _

__Auriel starts to head back to the Confederacy camp, whereas Ire and Mardocai and Veritas head into the woods; Daybreak makes an attempt to get Mardocai to go to back to camp instead._ _

__"Mardocai has the most credibility with them right now."_ _

__But he's insisting on going into the woods - and tells Auriel to tell the Confederacy leadership that he sent him, and has gone to investigate._ _

__A partial victory._ _

__She heads back to the Confed lines and updates a bunch of people like Essen, the Inquisitor, Avalanche; then parks herself next to Essen, behind the mantlet/cannon arrangement and waits for the next exciting installment, while introducing herself properly. She tells him that he can call her Zoe, if he likes, but that she might have been introduced by her other forms as Daybreak; the one he should be worried about._ _

__Auriel actually manages to do his job for once; next thing, everyone is forming up and heading out of the camp into the woods. Essen and Daybreak attach to the Cruciatorium squad and head out with them. Essen asks her if she's still up for taking his soul and making sure someone enshrines it and uses his skills; she says, of course; this means she has just one objective: keep Essen in sight at all times._ _

__Someone calls out 'who's that?' pointing at Dreamer following along in the treeline; she yells "It's fine, that's Dreamer" and this seems to be accepted._ _

__Essen seems determined to skirmish with every random group of natives off to the side of the column. She chases him through the woodland, keeping eyes out in all directions, as he leaps over trees in a way that reminds her uncomfortably of Ire of the Huntress in the woods with the Huntressites last season; she calls the positions of the native forces back to those who are following them; she stays carefully out of reach of the natives' fiery breath._ _

__One of them shatters his shield; another swipes the sword straight out of his grasp, so she darts in and swaps her staff into his hands before he had the chance to react, smoothly gathering up his sword, swapping it back in as soon as he has driven the first target off._ _

__Then his sword is shattered too, and she replaces it with her staff and draws her knives._ _

__The battle swirls on and off the main path; calls for shields to the front, to the sides, for muskets to target the archers; finally they plunge into the woods to one side. He manages to find himself in the rearguard as Fanor sweeps up the flank; after directing his panicked flight back to the lines once, twice, getting him to Jan to repair his armour, Brent handing him a sword and Jan enchanting it, watching him dive back into the fray... finally she is dragging his unconscious, burned body out of the very literal line of fire._ _

__She is glad of the talisman then, or she would have much less time to carry him around and find him a pumice after the edge of the flame catches her as they leave._ _

__Brent notices she's down to knives and tosses her a sword, reassuring her that he doesn't mind if she loses it; someone she doesn't even recognise gives Essen some potion that revives him; the natives close in behind, between them and the path, as the main force dithers forwards._ _

__The natives close right in behind. She notices the fox mokosh and another Gerosan down by a tree behind the lines, and for a moment she loses track of Essen; she uses the time to fetch reinforcements together from the people just milling around in the centre of the pack._ _

__"Can we have some heavy hitters over here please? There are Gerosans down behind the line!"_ _

__Daybreak is an elemental force moving through the crowd; she catches a glimpse of red and blue quarters through the trees again, and then she is there, but she gets too close with only knife and sword to fight with, and both of them fall together._ _

__"DETAIL! Pick him up, drag him out of the line!"_ _

__Obediently, Detail moves in and grabs Essen, dragging him out of the line - out of danger, for the moment._ _

__"Stuart, if you've got a moment, can you execute me?"_ _

__"Little busy here, I'm afraid," he says, eyeing the natives warily, standing over her._ _

__"At least start me bleeding?"_ _

__Daybreak has never been very good at waiting; it comes out more desperate than she intends._ _

__"By the power of the Maelstrom," he intones, and a jolt of magical energy slices through her where he reaches out to touch her._ _

__And the world is spinning; and the world is spinning; and the lines surge forwards and someone takes the time to dispatch her, although she does not recognise who._ _

__Clawing her way down from the dream on the one singing thread that all the gods are shouting in unison - aid the Confederacy - she drops into their camp alongside Mardocai and someone else, one of the new angels perhaps._ _

__She looks at the forest, but the camp is totally abandoned and it's a long way out there; and if angels are all dropping in here, she can do something more useful - she goes and raids the Sacuza New World Trading drug stash, sorting the remains, picking up the vineweed root, the flame, the swamp fever._ _

__But the place isn't quite as abandoned as she thought at first; she hands the vineweed root to some random people she doesn't recognise, who are apparently going to help defend the tavern, and tells them to give it to a surgeon. They've got a dryad with them, they're probably working with the natives - she doesn't care any more - they'll save some lives with it - it isn't any use for anything else._ _

__She is heading out with the swamp fever to leave it by where the eidolons are appearing, and sees Laertes and Piper returning with dark symbols on their forehead. She does not think either of them have taken the potion. Revenants, like Eli, then; sent back to finish their business - maybe even just to finish this fight._ _

__But the Confederacy army is coming out of the forest._ _

__She stuffs the drugs in her bag and pockets, and finds the Inquisitor - finds Essen, miraculously still standing - finds out that Benedict is dead._ _

__The part of her that is still Jennah has her cling wordlessly to Essen, as she has to take a moment to kick down the feelings of grief and loss._ _

__Benedict is dead. She knew it was going to happen, but... not like this, not in a fight, not in a battle... not so suddenly, with the Dauphin still a child - with the Regent still a teenager, caught so young between powerful men, for all she could already hold her own..._ _

__Gaelle is attempting to organise a retreat, grabbing whatever is left from the camp, announcing that the Confederacy are leaving the field._ _

__Then one of the White Wolves buries some kind of terrible weapon in her - as hard as a spatha, but passing through her armour as if it wasn't there - and sprints away towards the forest, where the White Wolves and the MACH unit are making themselves scarce._ _

__She is surprised, but has not completely neglected her training, and recovers quickly; several of her entourage sprint after her assailant, but they do not manage to run him down. And she spreads the word that the White Wolves are no longer with Havocstan, and should be executed as traitors._ _

__Other than that, business as usual seems to be reasserting itself. Someone circulates a rumour that a human-looking dude in a black frock coat with brown leather trouser patches is a Fallen; Essen accuses a random girl in a black robe of being the Fallen._ _

__The Inquisitor says something about going back in, about how they think they put caustic bile on the wrong thing; Daybreak tries to gather a couple of competent people, get them to get Gaelle and the Inquisitor talking to each other. But then the storm overhead begins to diminish, the clouds lighten in colour and fall apart; the day is obviously won._ _

__Everyone cheers._ _

__The Bendul-Dolum murder squad emerges from the other half of the woods and hangs around just out of reach; Amaranth points Ire towards them, then heads into the tavern for a better overview. From the top floor of the tavern, she sees the natives marching down the main path out of the main woods. She starts to try to clear the tavern out; some people listen, one guy gets in her face - a pint in each hand - and tells her that no-one tells him what to do with his drinks._ _

__"Die, then," she says, as she descends the stairs, continuing to tell everyone that it's time to leave._ _

__She finds the Cruciatorium lot and Essen looking speculatively at the oncoming hordes, and tells them that everyone not too stupid to live is in the process of clearing out; she tells Essen, especially, "This is one of those times when fucking off is the better part of valour". To the Inquisitor, she points out that there's a fortress right over there._ _

__She can feel Essen struggling with the urge to go and be a hero, so she drags him physically off the field, not giving him time to argue._ _

__They make it out of the line of fire, just in front of the oncoming enemy charge._ _


	68. Not Very Different

_turning and turning in the widening gyre_

They have made it to the fortress, but she knows that it will be only a brief respite from the onrushing tide.

"I think we should head up the coastline," she says, "to Archangel; from there we can get on a boat, if we're lucky, and do the rest of the trip by sea - which should be much safer - don't laugh, you can all swim, right?"

"Where do you think we're going?" he asks.

"To Alkyon," she says. "Providence offered you a church there, remember? And I think it's going to be about the best place to wait out the storm."

They leave it nearly too late, of course. The scent of burning air and molten rock chases them as they slip out of the back of the fortress, much of the Confederate force determined to square up to the swirling vortexes of lava and fire: standing with Illyes, who will not abandon what he has built here.

The Inquisitor has no such loyalty, thankfully, so they have good company on their long trek.

\----

_the falcon cannot hear the falconer_

There are scattered messages that reach them, along the way:

the Confederate remnants falling back, heading for the walls of Archangel themselves, caught up in the second volcano set just to the north of Draxholt, down whose slopes they had only just escaped;

the destruction of Beartstadt in towering mountains of flame, told by survivors heading in quite the other direction, in any direction;

and on the dockside of Holy Archangel, rumours drifting across an entire continent - that Port Havoc was consumed in volcanic devastation also, the two bastions of Havocstan sharing a single fate.

They find someone that the Inquisitor and her retinue can partially bribe and partially threaten into letting them charter their vessel, and set sail. 

It is strangely peaceful, away from the land, out on the wide ocean; if there are any great monsters of the deep that remain, or any hunting pirates roaming the waves, they do not consider this one ship significant enough for them to attack.

\----

_things fall apart; the centre cannot hold_

They take a wide arc around the area that used to be known as Gnollish waters.

From the crow's nest, Daybreak watches the warships flying ragged banners, crudely stitched with the symbols of the Fallen. 

A small patrol looks like it might detach itself to intercept them, but as she looks on - giving a running update to the resigned and weary crew - a gleaming fleet with Sacuza New World Trading's banners pours out of Malathian waters and engages the enemy.

She surrenders the watch to someone who has actual skill in keeping track of this kind of thing, but hangs over the side of the ship, watching the drama unfold.

It does not touch them, and they leave it behind as they sail onwards to Alkyon.

Above them, setting out from Malathia, an airship passes in the sky; so far away, so far removed from the struggles playing out across the face of the New World.

\----

_mere anarchy is loosed upon the world_

As they attempt to pass through Mill'enese waters, they are finally flagged down by a patrolling fleet.

They are not in any trouble, or under any suspicion, the small squadron that inhabits the galeass that finally pulls alongside reassures them; they just might like to know that their journey might be rather longer than they anticipated, if they had planned to sail onwards down the coast.

The sailors describe the great Plateau of Gaia which has extended itself into the sea from Alexandria, as far into the ocean again as the heartlands of the Flembic colony extended southwards.

The Inquisitor is quite happy to put in at some Mill'enese port, and Amaranth remembers that she did have something of an obligation remaining in Androgene, if no-one else had successfully cleared it out by this time; but she does not want to give Essen an excuse to follow her there.

They dock at Porto D'Henri, to take on supplies; but seeing the generally pleasant and stable atmosphere that persists within the Golden Nation, their ship's captain and his crew take their opportunity to entirely take their leave of them.

It is not all sunshine and flowers. The residents of Porto D'Henri credit their continued safety to the Domes of the Maelstrom here and at Baugherstadt, and the large patrols operating out of Engelstadt, Baugherstadt and Bernsteinkuste, although they are much reduced from their previous strength.

Everyone seems to know someone that they have lost in the great battle being spoken of as the Expulsion from Kettering, where endless waves of Gaia's Ambassadors directed by an order of martially-inclined golem mendicants had driven back the great Golden Eagle. 

(Golden Eagle had, after having thoroughly destroyed RS2, been attempting to search the rest of the previously Flembic lands for the second Maelstromic Restoration Device. This did not exactly align with Gaia's insistence that her forces would be the only armed force within a decent march of her Cornerstone at Alexandria...)

There is a great battle apparently ongoing to the south of Engelstadt with the undead who destroyed Androgene; they would have been no match for the previous strength of garrison, but the current forces are unable to make serious headway out of their fortified areas.

Naturally, Essen insists that he needs to complete the repayment of the undead for the losses at Androgene; so as the Cruciatorium set themselves up at Porto D'Henri's Church of the Teacher, Amaranth finds herself travelling deeper into the Golden Nation.

\----

_the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere_

Daybreak and Essen report for duty at Engelstadt; at approximately the same time, the undead forces of maybe six hundred husks are reinforced with a great cascade of varied undead and native forces - and twisted abominations of sorcerous power raised up from the animals of the land, or torn with theurgy from the energies of the Maelstrom itself - emerging from the old lands of the Rat Tribe.

The only saving grace is that they seem strangely reluctant to go around the side of Engelstadt by way of Pouchard Angouleme; so the remaining armies of Mill'en manage to funnel a good many of them between Engelstadt and Baugherstadt, and it is at the point between those two great cities that the hideous battle is joined.

Closer to home, the only saving grace is the lack of priests of the Merchant in the area, combined with an abundance of devotees; John Essen is suitably distracted in the very slightly less dangerous pursuit of laying the dead to rest.

Daybreak does not allow herself second thoughts; she returns easily - and often - to the theurgic cathedral in Engelstadt, which while having only a fraction of Brigadoom's power, clearly is keeping at bay some of the most egregious sorcerous and theurgic abominations which are arrayed against the people of Mill'en.

It is not the kind of battle which is decided in one pivotal day, or even over the course of several weeks. The enemy forces might be literally inexhaustible. The Mill'enese forces are still highly trained and superlatively equipped, and those few stragglers of the enemy that break through the lines are easily mopped up against the walls of Grande Phillipe.

She fights, as if in a trance; she dons scales and she heads through the blasted lands that were once the Hive of the Wasp, and comes across the enemy camp from behind, but there are few secrets to be had and plenty of suspicious theurges to avoid - they are simply using the great force they can bring to bear with their endless supply of magical constructions; she has a slightly more successful time rooting out fifth columnists in the cities themselves...

The front widens; Bernsteinkuste pins the coastline on the other side, but all beyond that triangle is laid to waste by the devastating hordes.

\----

_the ceremony of innocence is drowned_

As winter draws in, Amaranth takes a long walk out through the borderlands of the Hive of the Wasp, towards the place that had once been the People's Republic of Southern Kamakura.

She isn't sure what she is expecting to find. What is left of Prosperity's Offspring, perhaps, run wild and over-extended without Jeshur's careful oversight - but perhaps they have found a new Jeshur, although she does not expect they would find one as cunning as the one they have lost.

The Great Wooden Wall has been torn down. The People's Republic is no more. She reaches what she recognises as Tenizidi territorial markers, and turns back. 

In the distance, great mountains rise; the peaks of Gaia's wrath which fell upon the Teca lands, a scar across the world.

There is something of a conflict going on here, too, she notices, although it is much more subtle than the endless grinding battle that surrounds the edges of the Golden Nation. 

The Twilight Embassy and Prosperity's Offspring are locked in a game no less deadly, but much more patient, than the unliving and the monsters against the heartlands of Mill'en. Territorial markers; the great ordered circles of the Azarch, with their grazing colonist and ophidian remnants unwittingly propagating their pattern, brushing up against the graceful Tenizidi warning signs.

A pack of Prosperity's Offspring converts approach and attempt to recruit her, dressed as she is in the body of an Amun-Sari wanderer. She laughs and brushes aside her tassles for them, and apologises that she has no need of their services.

Then she traces her steps back around the edges of the much-expanded Twilight Embassy, and suddenly she realises - she is much further north than she thought she was. What is left of the Azarch hive has shifted significantly, flowing around the determined Tenizidi incursion, taking the place of the People's Republic, whereas the extensive Twilight claim extends across the whole of their original hive area.

But there is no clear safe passage to a trading pit of the Tenizidi, and where they end the shattered rocky scar that was the Teca lands begin, and tracing them to the north, where they end, the Plateau of Gaia begins.

She looks up at the cliff, and considers laying down her halberd and approaching the face of it; but she does not want to know what she will find there.

So she traces the cliff back towards the Golden Nation until she is set upon by monsters and devoured.

\----

_the best lack all conviction, while the worst_

She finds John Essen again out on the battlefield, or he finds her. After the usual accusations and recriminations that she has been gone for a long time, he says that Providence had come to speak to him, and that he is sick of this place - that this is just turning into yet another endless war, and he has had quite enough of those to last a lifetime - "perhaps forever".

So they return to Porto D'Henri. Apparently the coast to the west is beset by storms, but there is little preventing passage towards the Plateau, although they are warned that no-one has returned. John has picked up quite a few 'donations to the church' from his work on the battlefield, and they can easily find a ship and crew for which that is sufficient inducement to have them agree on a journey to Alkyon, something that many seem to be interested in finding an excuse to attempt in any case.

The greatest expense is the large quantity of salted meat they need to take on, traded illicitly from Onontakhan tribes, as there is no other reliable source of the preserved food they will need to see them around the coastline; some of those setting out have planned to rely on the resurgent fish stocks, but these are, after all, still Flembic waters.

It is a long and uneventful journey around the Plateau. An incredibly refreshing change from the wearying battle, and even from the fairly eventful wandering by land. But the supplies of food and more importantly of fresh water gradually dwindle away; Jennah does not need to eat, but her salt-matted fur is still not something she can easily change, knowing she is very unlikely to return to a particular boat in the middle of the ocean.

The fish are definitely back, though, although they do not alleviate the water situation very well.

At a point which they desperately hope must be at least half-way around, they are met by a small unattended boat made entirely of talismanic stone. It speaks to them directly, asking their purpose, offering to let them put in to shore if it can first confiscate any tool of war aboard their vessel.

They politely decline, but Gaia dimly recognises Amaranth from her earliest days... and offers to resupply their vessel, which they gladly accept.

Refreshed with new supplies of water and a little extra food, although Gaia has nothing that will not swiftly perish, the rest of the journey is much less fraught; they round the edge of the plateau and rejoin the original coastline, twisted as it is by the devastation that reached to the coast at Abu Malikari.

They mean to put in at Eboneyrie, with the Basilica that Providence inherited in life - the Monument To The Majesty Of The Great Leonhardt And Our Patron Too, from a sect of Merchant faithful long departed these shores - and the First Church of St Otto Eype. 

But as they leave behind the shattered mountains of Abu Malikari, there is no feature remaining along the coastline, save for dense and twisted forest reaching down to the shore.

\----

_are full of passionate intensity_

In the depths of the Alkonian forest, the new expeditionary forces of Hive Unity fight with claw and flame against the encroaching trees; bolstered by the remains of Havoc and the Gerosans fleeing from the burning ruins of Port Havoc and the crumbling coastline of Maya, and steadfastly ignoring the small Freiboden remnant holed up in Freiholme, the dryads of the Great Forest are the next major threat to their community.

And - while the Gerosans build their ports on the old Merisusi and Freeport coastline, the area broken by the native incursion and no match for the Havoc armies, and hope to re-establish contact with the Golden Nation over the other side of the continent - threats to the community must be faced, and eliminated.

Jennah and Essen dock at the natural harbour of Old Man's Covenant, which has been thoroughly cleared of its intended occupants, and consider their next move.


	69. The Fish Are Definitely Back

"You'll lose all your skills, you know. We know that now."

"The Merchant might let me keep them," he says, petulantly.

"I think that's quite unlikely. Even Dorian got a fairly standard blessing, instead. And if it doesn't take properly - there's another one, you know. Already stuck in there."

"There is?"

"Yes. I got a bit distracted what with Martin almost flattening me after witnessing Mica get killed and demanding I get back out into the world immediately, but before that I was talking to him quite a bit. It's the necromancer that had Anna - you know, the little girl undead that Riddl took away in the end. The one with the hat. And a parasol, I think."

"What did he think he was doing?"

"Preserving the knowledge of the Time of Destruction - but when he got to the dream, he'd lost it. The pocket, I mean. I call it the dream; it isn't exactly analogous but it makes more sense to me than 'pocket', as it's actually interconnected by associations..."

"Do I need to get him out?"

"Well, eventually someone does; but he's happy where he is for the moment, he claims, although quite upset that he's lost the purpose he came there with. I don't blame him; I figure it will take him a couple of decades to get bored, if the pocket continue to be as busy as it is."

"I thought you didn't get bored."

She laughs.

"We have a lot of practice at it, but no. Auriel doesn't get bored, maybe. I... I would say he was one of the self-multilatees, but I think he's always been like that." She pauses, ruefully. "He used to be able to make decisions though. I think that's what he lost, to survive the war."

He looks at her meaningfully, as if something has just occurred to him. "So... did all of you lose something, to survive?" he asks, slowly. "What did you lose?"

She regards him, searchingly; as if attempting to discern whether he can handle the revelation.

"I lost the ability to trust," she said, simply.

"What?" he asked. "So you don't trust me?"

Externally, her expression is beseeching, a little nervous, making eye contact, cute. Internally, she rolls her eyes. She guesses he wouldn't be so endearing - that it would be surprising - if he didn't make everything about him.

"I just said," she offers.

"Why are you here, then?" he asks. "You certainly act like you trust me."

She looks downcast for a moment, to buy her a few seconds' thought. "I don't want to say what I would usually say," she explains, "because if I say to you, 'I don't trust, I predict', if I imply that I can predict you, then I'm pretty sure that you will deliberately go and do something drastic, unpleasant and unsettling specifically to prove that I can't predict you. And that would be bad."

He laughs.

"Maybe you can predict me, then," he admits.

"Mostly," she continues, "I think I can predict that... that I can be honest with you. That I can be incredibly honest with you, in a way that I can't with anyone else. Because, well, because it won't damage you - " she senses that he is about to interrupt with a protest and carries right on over it - "because you've already thought all of the... because any terrible idea I come up with, you're already way ahead of me? You've already got your own philosophy - you can't be broken by mine, you can't be broken by the truth, however terrible it is."

"I think you might give me too much credit."

"Well, if that's not the case, then you definitely shouldn't be trying to become an angel."

\----

"So..." he says, with that affected casualness that she's sure he must know sends quite the opposite signal. "Why not a wemic?"

She smiles, tolerantly, as he continues to play with her fur and generally make that set of actions she recognises as 'trying to put her at her ease'.

"It's one of those stories," she says. "Not even a story, really. From my long, and sordid, and quite frankly incredibly boring history. Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes," he says, although he quickly adds, "if you don't mind, I mean..."

She rolls her eyes and affects a small sigh. "Very well then. So. I spent rather a long time - hmm, probably only a few centuries elapsed, if that, but relatively recent as these things go, and I was quite active at the time - on the Amun-Sa / Flembic border..."

He stops moving, slightly; tries to hide it, but seems to be worrying whether it's okay to still be touching her. She looks up at him with gentle eyes. "This was a while ago now, it wasn't that traumatic to begin with, and I did ask for it, occasionally even with actual words. You don't need to worry about me; there are just a set of associations, a set of... reflexes... that I didn't really want to invoke."

Now he's doing that thing where he looks at her with some new appraisal, like when Brent told him about the time when she defended Bastion from Manifestation, and called her 'some kind of ninja'. She chuckles, softly. "Not like that! I didn't... no, wait, I did," her eyes glaze over slightly with recollection, "I did kill at least one of them, I think, but I really hated that and I'm terrible at it - maybe two, three at the most - I mean, directly..." She gives him a helpless look and he can't resist ruffling her ears. "I'm not doing very well at this, am I?"

"No, no, go on," he attempts to reassure her. "So when you weren't being a deadly stealth assassin..."

She laughs. "I really am terrible at that, and it's miles from anywhere where the bastards kill you afterwards, I never once got away cleanly; I don't know, do you know about that already? The distance thing."

"The distance thing?" he prompts.

"You know. We come out wherever the gods want us - except it's not quite as simple as that; there's a tendency, I don't know if it's an energy thing or a familiarity thing or what, there's a tendency to send us back in approximately the same place as we left from - I mean, accounting for all the usual likelihood of showing up in a shrine or a church or something, and there being a concentration of worshippers at all, and so on. So... I guess it's a habit I got into, that I like to optimise - I like to get killed, or leave... I much prefer just to leave quietly if I have to go at all... somewhere near a decent church, a stable community, but not too quiet - somewhere there's likely to be a call back, sooner rather than later, so that I'm the obvious choice."

"You think about all this?" he asks. "Is that why you like the basilica so much? Because you can get sent back here?"

"Not... recently," she replies, relaxing against him. "I've been spoilt - I mean, it sounds crazy, with all the terrible things that have happened here - but I've been spoilt by the luxury of always knowing I'll be back in some kind of reasonable time, that I can relax enough to even just let myself go and know it won't be ten years, twenty years before I'm back... I mean, that used to dominate my life, at least for, well, a good three, four thousand years; it got a bit easier when I, um, more recently, in Flambard where there's always plenty of everything, but..." She looks up at him, and the vulnerability isn't entirely feigned this time. "That I can have this - with you - and then I can contemplate going to get changed, I can spend the entire season like I did last season wearing a different body morning and night..."

It is noticeable that she has not been doing that this season. In fact, she hasn't returned to the Maelstrom at all since they left the festival; has been holding herself a little more carefully, been acting more wary of injury, almost paranoid of risking even superficial wounds.

"And?" he asks, as her explanation seems to have choked itself off.

"And... it might be over," she exhales, pleadingly. "It might be... it might be going back to the way that it was, where I can't get too attached, or if I do then I have to careful, so careful..." Some of the intensity drains out of her eyes, to be replaced by a kind of downcast gaze, an aversion of the eyes. "I don't want to lose you," she begins, and continues right over his attempts to say, "but you don't have to," to bring that up again, "and I don't want you to lose yourself either; and I'm not sure whether I want to lose myself, although heavens know there isn't much worth saving."

"I won't lose myself," he promises. "I'll be just as awful as I've always been. Promise."

She smiles, shows her teeth, doesn't quite meet his eyes. "Or worse, no doubt," she can't resist, sneaking a veiled glance up at him, as if sharing a private joke. "That isn't the point. I don't..." she pauses, gathering her thoughts. "I could live, you know," she says, contemplatively, leaning back into his touch. "They say it's different, and I suppose they should know - I mean, the ones who've done it - although what they describe sounds a lot like things they should have learnt how to do for themselves already, so maybe I'm just different from them to start with. But. I could live. And... have children. And... if I did it right, I wouldn't have to worry about every little thing..." She trails off. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned children, should I?"

"It's okay," he says, and for a moment she can't quite read him, but he probably at least wants her to act like it is, really, okay.

"I've raised a lot of children," she says, cautiously, but she feels like she wants to divert this chain of thought, for herself if nothing else. "But anyway. The thing with living without, you know, living - with just being me, for as long as I can - is that, well, we don't heal. We're not really built for it; for staying out for years at a time, not somewhere dangerous."

"So that's why you've been so cautious," he says. "But it should still be safe now, right? You seemed busy enough at the festival, and there's that cathedral, and..."

"There was basically nothing left at the end of the festival," she says, regarding him with a level gaze, like he's some kind of wild animal that might bolt at any moment - or like she wants to impress him with how calmly she can say it, to reassure him that she is stable, that she is safe. "Even less than there used to be, in fact, although not quite less than there seemed to be back in Old Terino; that one might have been especially for me, though, given... what happened after that. Anyway. There's no guarantee... although I think I might be paranoid yet, in fact I'm thinking of changing out of this when I go and see Thenakala."

He seems torn between the two obvious pieces of bait to take.

"I've just got to do a week of teaching her how to supplicate," she offers. "But I feel weird going there as a wemic, given they've all changed themselves from wemics to ophidians; and I've never tried being an ophidian before."

"It's kind of interesting," he says, "although I guess - you won't get the venom bit?"

"Not usefully, anyway," she replies.

"So what did happen after Terino?" he asks; following her other lead, even more tempting from the way she had made it appear she was distracting him from it.

"Oh," she says, "that was when I was - incredibly briefly - favoured of the Merchant."

"So you're not any more?" he asks.

"Not as far as I can tell," she says. "I mean, it's not actually possible to tell, and I haven't exactly been interrogating Dorian - who obviously is, and is therefore the only one who could possibly tell me, because the only sign of it is them sending you on missions the others aren't hearing - and it might just be that the Weaver has been drowning it out, but..."

"So the thing about supplicating?" he asks.

"Probably generic," she admits. "Or, I don't know, everyone who wasn't the Weaver, working together? But I know that Auriel, and the Huntress crowd, had a few through from theirs afterwards; so it wasn't all the Weaver's fault." She's doing that thing with her hands again, where she tries to make gestures she can't quite make either to make up for the inadequacy of the words.

"And now you're pissed off enough to become mortal, just as a kind of huge cosmic fuck you to them all?"

"No!" she protests, automatically; her eyes go hard, an ancient mask through which she scrutinises him for signs of sudden but inevitable betrayal. Instead, however, he just looks uncertain and kind of lost, like he doesn't understand how his joking comment could have gone so wrong. So she softens, lets a little of the fear creep into her expression around the edges, bringing it down to a slight cringe which mirrors his uncertainty and doubt.

"No, I... I wouldn't do that. And," she relaxes somewhat, taking the fear signals out of her body, if not quite taking all the uncertainty from her eyes, "and it's not just that I'm afraid, not just that I'm... that they, that somehow I have to, pacify them? I'm not... I'm not angry with them. It's..." she trails off again, although now she looks more rueful than terrified. She was about to say, it's like, can you be angry with a waterfall for flowing, with the wind for blowing, with the ocean waves for drowning? but she has realised that... that yes, he could be, he could be angry with all those things. So she tries a different angle. "It's something I would want to do - if I did it - for me, not for anything else," she tries to explain. "For... because I wanted to, not because I didn't want something else, not because I wanted to send a message, not because I was angry."

"For?" he asks, picking up on that hesitation. "Just for you?"

She draws herself up slightly; aims at 'stern', tries not to add too much 'despairing', ends up with a kind of exasperated fondness. "What do you want me to say? For us?" She shakes her head very gently, almost imperceptibly. "How long have I known you? How long have you even been alive?" She waves away his attempt to answer her literally, to protest how that surely can't matter. "I have had husbands; I have raised children; I love you now, and I loved them then; and I know that we can have forever, and that I could try to have you... have you fill the place he left in me, that I have been trying to fill ever since, and _don't interrupt, and we could do that - and maybe it would even work, and maybe this _is_ different, and maybe you _are_ different, and maybe I _would_ love you anyway, but because we don't get to start from that blank slate - we don't get to be, I don't know, in isolation from all the things that have gone before, and you as much as me, right?" She pauses, for a moment, to gauge his reaction; he is still held, for the moment, between wanting to make a massive scene about how he never wanted this to become a _thing_ anyway and wanting to hear her out and accept it gracefully and carry on taking the moments as they come. "So I don't get to say things like, _for us_ , because I still don't know what that means yet, I can't know, and maybe I never will - but what I do know is, right now, with you?" She brushes against him gently. "I'm happy. And I don't get that very often, so I want to be able to take it and enjoy it while I can."_

_He looks like he's desperately trying to take it in, make any sense out of it, work out what she wants him to say. That's much better; if he's worried about what she wants him to say, she's said the right thing, for now._

_"I'm still going to turn into an eidolon, you know," he settles on, eventually._

_"Sure you are," she says, with a smile._


	70. In The Periphery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-canon AU - what if the undead won?

Perhaps, in another reality, we could have stopped the undead completing the ritual.

But I have always been a shifter; a changeling; a chimera; the tide of reality turned, and I turned with it. It was some useless braggart of a Fallen that gave me the idea. The undead may have killed all of the living - but golems can make more golems, facets can make more facets, so long as there is magic in the world.

And without the living, there is magic aplenty - for that is how they sustain themselves.

It was not easy to acquire the requisite souls; I have never found the gaining of that kind of trust a straightforward task. I had bound myself to a lich for now, the gift of the stars making a mockery of the sanctity of my singular, my only, my last possession, and my talent for taking many forms being enough of an asset for now. 

I imagine he would have killed me if he could, but he still feared the dim possibility that the weak voices of Gaia's children, or the other scattered groups of the faithful, would call me back; better for him to keep me as a servant, he thought, than have me as a free agent.

Because I had still not Fallen, because I heeded them from time to time in places where it seemed compatible with my conflicting allegiances, I still heard the thin whispers of the gods when they called.

Gulbane and the Smithite resistance had their redoubt in the old Second Freiboden Colony lands, a network of fortresses around Tsuki and the Last Garden of Sha Al-Tora; the cult of the Phoenix stalked the land raiding old warehouses and Onontakhan supply caches for dried food, seeking vengeance for the fall of Thisbe's Blessing; in the trackless desert to the south, a silent army of golems grew, although they cut me down every time I appeared in their Teacher-consecrated sacred places.

Port Havoc and Saint Wyatt's Cathedral had been too close to the shoreline; the cities of Mill'en and the Beartstadt Protectorate were too heavily populated, when the living became the walking dead. The dead ships had destroyed all remnants of the Confederacy that had retreated to the Kennels.

As for the natives, a few facet tribes still lived in the fashion of the Onontakha, and beneath the ground and in the most dangerous of the old ruins, crystal spiders and crystal snakes took the places of those who had taken them in; mere hives were little use to those who did not reproduce like myrmidons, and were swiftly abandoned or defeated.

It was amongst the people of Gaia - golems and facets both, some of them newly transformed from the few strong-willed mortals that had survived the catastrophe and migrated to the last place of safety - that I began my search. 

I could tell immediately that I was not alone in this. As the most vibrant and open source of souls left in the entirety of the New World, every Fallen still active was fishing from the same pool, as was every faith - and representatives of the various liches searching for underlings and lieutenants, which was approximately my cover story. 

Whilst Gaia strictly enforced a total ban on active coercion, she had no particular opinion on what fate any individual soul should choose for itself, as long as it was a free and informed decision.

But my true offer was not exactly compelling. I ruled out facets when I realised they needed a fixed structure, and I would have nowhere reliable. Golems with the ability to reproduce seemed rather few; but I had talked my master into believing that he wanted the kind of golems that could build siege-golems, and the paths to both were similar. 

With a lack of trees and plant life, traditional siege engine were essentially impossible to construct - hence the success of the Hunapha cities and the Last Redoubt at holding out against the undead hordes. A lieutenant who could create powerful siege-golems could tip the balance, if one could be persuaded to join the cause of the Dead.

I used the normal flatteries and enticements: power, domination, joy in slaughter on one hand, the freeing of Gulbane's people from their tyrannical master on the other. But I knew I was being watched, and it was a careful line I had to dance - my master had eyes everywhere, and I knew he would want one that could create siege-golems and not independent souls - the mindless were less of a potential threat.

But in the end, I found one, and his Jaguarite friends; I bound them to me, saying it was to ensure safe passage - that the dead could sniff out the devoted and many were set solely to devouring them, which was not entirely a lie, although if they had been smart they could merely have renounced their devotion instead - and I took them to the base of the cliffs, and I led them through an enemy's land, and the enemy of my master killed them for me.

I hung in the space between - in the Dream - for an eternal moment, listening to the lich's rage at my incompetence, and as it gradually dawned on him, extravagant threats for the repayment of my betrayal. The golems were angry too, while they lasted, but they did not have the strength of will to hold themselves together for long - and once in the Dream, there was nothing further they could do, apart from tell all passers-by of my perfidy - which I could easily counter with lies that I was going to pass these dangerous malcontents and would-be murderers on, once they had a chance to calm down and accept their fate.

It was a chance I had never previously been so close to taking. But the Redoubt and the Cult were doomed, I expected, in the medium term; the population of the Plateau was low and the peace there meant that the need for my services was limited; and while I could go back to the way it was, in the medium-long term when the barrier reopened, I had seen the black fleets and I knew that several of the liches had experience with the sheer size of Known World engagements; I did not fancy the chances of those squabbling, bickering, continental powers that moved at a glacial pace, and even worse, the last holdouts would likely be the Gerosans.

I did not want to spend the rest of my days as a messenger to the Gerosans - at best, asked swiftly for my mission, led to conduct it, and just as swiftly discorporated at its conclusion. Watching the world leap by in glimpses decades apart, soaring away from anything I could continue to grasp the referents of, diving headlong into the incomprehensible future.

Only the quiet army in the southern desert seemed a clear and present danger, on a long enough timescale. 

But I decided that I would not bet against the necromancers on the matter of death.

It would take me time to bootstrap myself; time when I would have to be well away from everything; time when I would, I imagined, most certainly miss another Revolution, maybe several, maybe the very doom of the gods themselves. 

But I had missed most of an Empire, three thousand years in the periphery, and I had returned from that. 

No. Now, I would at last ensure, barring extreme misfortune - and even then, I would need only one chance to begin the cycle again - that I could always return from whatever fate the world had in store for me.

Consume one; burn two; step through into the world, in the land of dry valleys that was once the Nest of Snakes; and strike out south into the dusty no-man's-land, stalked only by the dead husks of snakes and axolotl that would not bother that which did not live.

It was even possible, I noted distantly, that they did not know; that they would not know, assuming that nothing I created ever managed to escape, that no-one ever found me...


End file.
